


Dancing on our Graves

by Teefths



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No supernatural, Bubbline, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Homeless AU, Homeless!Carmilla, Longest slowburn ever slow burned, Other, Trying to keep them in character as much as I can considering the circumstances, mental health
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-03-17 01:31:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 88,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3510164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teefths/pseuds/Teefths
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You know, that's how the story goes. You don't believe in love at first sight, but something in you tells you that you should be paying attention. It's impulsive and irrational because she's just some homeless girl playing a song on a beat up guitar. To be quite honest, you aren't really sure if it's a happy or a sad one. You aren't looking for love but she steps into your home and everything suddenly makes sense. You lose sleep over her, but for once in your life, you don't mind insomnia. You want her to be happy more than you want her to love you.</p><p>Sometimes she needs you. Sometimes you need her. But you both fall in love and that just means that you both kind of need each other."</p><p>Or</p><p>A story about a homeless Carmilla who survives in unfavorable conditions until she meets a girl and tries just so hard not to fall in love with her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story came from an idea I got on the bus ride back home. Since it wouldn't leave my thoughts, I wrote it down. Since I wrote it down, I edited it the best I could. And since I've edited it, I figured I might share it. Hope you enjoy.

 

 

The camera would focus on a body part. So incredibly close, you wouldn't be able to make out what you are supposed to be seeing. Dynamic shots – changing every three seconds or so. An ankle covered with a thick wool sock, the contrast of the black of a tattoo on pale skin, a loose strand of a dark brown curl moving with the wind. The faint music in the background would then pick up. Its fast beat would take over the rhythm in your chest. It would be a classic punk song. One that you would allow yourself to sing the chorus, late at night, when you need to pretend you are stronger than you think. The sound of the drum would resonate in your bones. Imagine the one you like or know. The camera would start backing up until you could make out the outline of my green canvas backpack and its stains, patches and holes. It would zoom in on the dirty pavement and the cars racing past me. It would then focus back on my skateboard with its duct tape holding it together.

Without a shade of doubt, that movie would be one of redemption. On my quest, an undying determination to be well. To be good. To fit the nine to five box. To get in that socially determined uniform and to say those good mornings and how are you. The typical good girl gone bad, gone good again. A literary cliché, a bore. I would meet a terribly average boy along the way, who would show me through unrelenting love, the error of my ways. I'd be the quirky white girl of his dreams. At one point in the movie, I would cry about how my father abandoned me (I'd have dramatic classical music playing in the background). I'd go back to school, become a contributing member of society. My existence would make the lives of strangers slightly more comfortable, comprehensible. Fuck it.

This is not something you can passively watch in the comfort of your own home. There is no fantastical plot line, as my only quest is one of survival. My story isn't one of fingers crossed. One of hope, believing that life will send things my way just because I am owed good things, a good life. Anyways. Perhaps it would be a good introduction to whatever this is supposed to be, but what would I know? It isn't like I actually have the means to keep myself updated on movies and mainstream media. I could tell you all about myself, dissect my life until reduced to cold, simple, clinical facts. Something much too easy to understand, not deserving attention. Something abstract. It would be inevitable to try to guess the ending of this story. The predictable ending of my life, as if but a mere game. Like my existence was partial, only present when it can entertain. Strangers would want to hear about my suffering. About days where even your own lungs betray you and the mind cannot see beyond a plea. It would be needed as if pity is required in empathy. This is not the type of story I want to give. I'm not going to make it easy because you deserve more than that. Maybe I do too, deserve not to be a result of bad choices. But what I will tell you, for now, is where I'm going.

I'm going to Rico's Pizza Place because it's eleven am and they open at twelve pm. The owner lets me use their bathroom in the morning to clean myself. I am aware of how lucky I am. How many of those living on the streets can go into public bathrooms without the fear of getting kicked out? Either way, nothing is truly given away freely. This arrangement came to be through irony and a threatening illness. That story begins on a warm Monday morning. I had managed to make enough change for a slice of pizza. It had taken a day's worth of guitar playing and my fingers felt raw. That pizza place is known for their cheap discounts on Mondays. Which, I'm guessing, is a perk of being located right next to a university, on a street with high traffic. I had been going there long enough to know that the owner is a good man. The type of boss who stays all day, every day, using his time to help his employees out.

I recognized him behind the counter, taking orders from moody teenagers and hurried young adults. It was when only a person was left in front of me that I noticed something getting progressively wrong. He was attempting to use his left arm to scribble down her order and barely talked to the woman, using nonsensical monosyllables. He didn't smile at her when she finished giving her order, as he usually did. By the time it was my turn to order, the uneasiness was settled in the pit of my stomach, urging me to get someone to call an ambulance.

The echo of my own voice felt calm and smooth, although the urgency of this situation was more than evident in my mind. "Look I know it's hard to believe, but I'm sober and I know what I'm doing – I want you to do three things for me. If you can, I'll just leave and you won't ever see me again. Can you lift both of your arms in front of you?" The stares of the waiting customers were burning holes in my already wrecked clothes.

He looked at me and I saw fear and confusion painted in bold colors on his face. He only managed to get his left arm up. When I asked him to smile, but he only managed to give me a crooked, lopsided smile.

"Can you say the big black cat went up the stairs?"

What come out of his mouth is a sentence that even combined did not make a word.

I looked at him and hoped it was laced with such an intensity, that it left no room for doubt. "I want you to sit down and stay calm. We're going to take care of you." I had no idea who the "we" was at that precise this moment. Turing to the girl in the uniform standing next to him, looking equally annoyed and lost, “I want you to call 911 and get an ambulance. Tell them it's a possible TIA or stroke and the onset of the symptoms started about five minutes ago.”

I could understand her confusion but this was not the moment to acknowledge it. She was the type of girl who doesn't feel the weight of the change in her pockets and never ever looks at the street kid playing pop songs on a beat up guitar for money. I could feel the heaviness of the stares on me, almost as if I was the one causing the symptoms that this man was presenting. As if, any second, I would pull out a knife and ask for money. Whatever. No matter how uncomfortable the attention was, I shrugged it off. They were the ones walking around like ticking time bombs – not knowing the basic and simple signs of a stroke. Not taking a second to notice that another individual was unwell. I stayed with him until the ambulance arrived. More out of mistrust of the ones surrounding him than out of a sense of moral duty. Trying to keep his heart rate and his stress level as low as I possibly could, I told him about the squirrel I once befriended in a park. He is a kind man. It’s silly and maybe not entirely relevant. But, perhaps even uncharacteristically, it matters in some small way to me. It is something precious when you live surrounded by apathy. You can tell a lot about a person when they think no one is looking. But I always am.

I gave a report to the EMT and he recognized me. He usually works the night shift and I've been in this position before. When you spend this much time out on the streets, you unfortunately come across a lot of people who are living like you. We all need a reason to survive. Some of them find them in cheap beer bottles and others in overused syringes and pipes. I am uncertain if it is good or bad, but often I am the one who calls when I find them filled with more drugs in them than their body can handle. I always keep a few quarters in my pockets for these emergency calls. This is the usual reason of our meetings, although there have been various odd situations here and there. He put an oxygen mask on him and attached the proper equipment to monitor his vital signs, asking him various health related questions while doing so. They were about to get him in the ambulance when I felt a hand grip my wrist. The owner of the pizza place looked at me, maybe his eyes were silently thanking me.

I gave him a tight-lipped smile. "They will take care of you," I stated as if it was an easy thing to do.

You would think it would have made the newspapers:  __Homeless saves the owner of a pizza place while bystanders almost kill by their impressive passivity_ _ _._ A few weeks later I passed in front of the pizza place and there was a big neon poster. Written in a thick black marker, it asked to see the girl who had taken care of him on the specific date of the incident. I eventually convinced myself to make my way in, entirely hesitant. He thanked me and explained what had happened after. How his fast admission to the emergency department had made him eligible for thrombolytics. I couldn't help the small smile that appeared on my face, knowing that the medication dissolved the clot in his brain to nothing. Giving him another chance. He didn't understand how I knew what I did. He wanted to know what he could do for me in return. It was then that our arrangement came to be. Luck, you see. If I had asked for money it would already be gone. What's fifty or a hundred dollars in this life? Every day before twelve, he keeps the back door unlocked and I can go clean myself in the bathroom. Sometimes he has coffee for me. Sometimes I nod in his general direction. Precious things indeed.

As for the skateboard, it is not for the appeal or to get girls. I guess you can presume that it is not that type of story either. Everything I wear and own is because of how useful it is. Practicality. I can put my skate with my beat up yoga mat between my back and my backpack. Convenient for travel and low risk of it getting stolen. At times, my skateboard as served as a decent pillow. It would be impossible for me to own a bike although some do have some. I rather carry all that I own in my backpack.

As for my typical day, after cleaning myself at Rico's I go to the metro station sit in the hallway. The small price to pay for getting in is worth the change I make playing guitar. I got the instrument from the garbage of a music shop that went bankrupt. A few days later, I found good, usable, strings. It is smaller, obviously made for a child and too damaged for sale. Initially, it was an odd shade of pink. I painted it black using a leftover from a can of paint I found on a construction site. When I was much younger, I begged my mother for weeks to let me go to guitar classes. Eventually, miraculously, she agreed to let me attend a few for a short amount of time. Often, my ability to learn quickly has served me well. But this, was a skill I had never thought would be this vital. In a hallway between two stations, I play everything I know. Sometimes I enjoy it, other times my drive to play is for monetary purposes only. It is incredibly hard to enjoy anything when you feel like you are lacking so many basic things that are needed. I take off my leather jacket and laying it on the ground before sitting. It was given to me by an acquaintance of mine, LaFontaine. The stale and humid air is clinging to my skin. The warmth feels sickly sweet and I am infinitely more comfortable in this tank top I made out of an old band shirt. LaFontaine and I sometimes scavenge various sites after concerts. You would be surprised how many t-shirts you can find abandoned after a concert. It is, without a doubt, the only time in my life I have been thankful for shirtless men.

After I have gone through my repertoire of songs or the crowd has thinned out, I go dumpster diving – trying to salvage some food to bring back with me. Whatever that may be for the night. Tonight, even if I find nothing, I still have half a bag of peanuts from yesterday. Which is a good a meal as any.

I met LaFontaine about a year ago. I cannot say I met them at the right time, but rather at a time I needed it most. It had been three months of aimless wandering and barely surviving. One night, I found myself in a rundown building on the edges of the city. Back then, I was only starting to learn the ropes. Only starting to get some of my basic needs met. The sky had been black, the streets had been silent for a long while when they came "home". It is at that unfortunate moment I realized this was where LaFontaine and their friends squatted. When you have no choice but to sleep in public areas, you become used to being woken at various hours. You almost get accustomed to sleeping only a couple of hours per night. It is the constant fear and vigilance that makes sleep such a hard thing to obtain. When I heard the voices and the heavy boots falling on a creaking rotten floor, I came to understand how vulnerable I was. How vulnerable a girl can be. I can’t paint for you, a picture myself as a hard, sarcastic and witty character that night. Often, I wonder if there would be a story to tell, if it was another group or individual that had found me. Many could have taken my belongings with blood and violence. But on that night, one like many others before, there was an exchange of services. An exchange of services that I can see now, made survival a viable option. That small group had gotten jumped by some drunk jocks from a local university on their way back. Bruised and swollen, it would have been more logical to turn to pity rather than fear. In my bag, I still had some medical supplies left. Enough thread to stitch up those who needed it. I still wonder what it was that made them trust the pathetic creature I had become.

Afterwords, LaF told me they had been on the streets since sixteen. Along the years, they had gathered this group of punks, a colorful group of outcasts. Became family, I guess. Laughing, as they told me that anything can become family when you have nothing. For the first time in my life, I felt this mutual understanding with a stranger. In a way, they remind me of the characters from cartoons I used to watch as a child. They have this ability to make so much out of so little, you almost believe there's magic hidden somewhere in their palms. God knows how or even why. They gave me their leather jacket in exchange for stitching everyone up. They allowed me to stay the night. I did and the one after that. Next thing I realized, I was a part of the pack of weirdos living in "Silas University", as they ironically called it. I don't ask why they are on the streets. They return the favor. To be homeless and survive you have to be resourceful. So I am.  



	2. Chapter 2

 

The needle breaks the skin once again and I have lost count of the amount of times it has. It is through gritted teeth that I manage to say, "Fucking hell cinnamon face, could you jam this needle further in my nervous system?"

They laugh, clearly not minding my current misery, “I could, but I think we’ve done enough bonding for one night.”

I wouldn't let anyone else do this. But LaFontaine is undeniably talented. I would go so far as to say, they probably are at everything they do. I believe they used to work in a tattoo shop before, if not very briefly. Or maybe one of their ex partners did, I can't recall. One of them managed to find, or steal, a pot of ink. LaF decided that, as a group activity it seems, we were going to freshen up our stick and poke tattoos. Which is as amusing as it sounds. Regardless, I cannot help but be silently impressed by what they are able to do with only a pencil, a needle, thread, and ink. I clench my teeth and let them finish the design behind my neck. It was inspired by the cover of an old, abandoned book, the pages damaged beyond functionality. Still now, with the moth's wings clinging permanently on my skin, I do not understand what it was about that image that made me want to carry it with me.

When it's done I turn my back against the big broken mirror we found and hold a shard of broken mirror so I can see the result. I keep my lips stubbornly together, but they are the best I’ve seen at this. How little it takes to make something is still something that continues to impress me. In times like these, I almost wish things had turned out differently for them. Their potential shouldn’t be rotting in the basement of an abandoned building. I put on my black sweater, hoping the cold weather will stay out of the holes. The cold, northern winds are getting restless, announcing the return of winter. I do not have to explain what makes it the most feared season when you are out on the streets. This run down building can barely keep out rain, let alone snow and cold.

I'm in charge of keeping the instruments as aseptic as possible. I rinse the instruments with alcohol and then pass them through a flame. Perry is sitting next to them, arranging the equipment for the hundredth time. This girl is able to make anything look clean and orderly. Even, surprisingly, a rundown abandoned house on the edges of the city. These days, excluding me, there are two girls in this group. Perry, although LaFontaine never explicitly said so directly, is their girl. They always share their findings of the day with her. More often than not they share their beat up mattress. The other girl in the group is Bonnie. I guess she is attractive, with her pink hair and blue eyes. The only thing wrong with her is that she uses. I am assuming anything she gets her hands on as she, thankfully, does not bring anything back to Silas. Based on that, not an option for me when I want someone to warm my yoga mat.

The sun is setting and I grab my bag and leave, thanking LaFontaine on my way out. Often I can make a decent amount of change on Friday nights, with all those people coming and going from bars.

 

* * *

 

By the time I finish the last song it's around one in the morning, and that's when I see them. Two girls, all leather and studs, one of them with an impressive Mohawk. So high they seem out of their minds. Their hands are fumbling over each other as they laugh and move without balance. I have seen them around. It's hard not to notice a punk lesbian couple. It happens in the blink of an eye. One with the long hair suddenly collapses. The other girl tries to get her to wake up, shaking her shoulders and calling her name. I can clearly see the moment the girl realizes she is not going to be able to wake her up. Screams for help and it echos dramatically against the walls. From where I'm sitting, I can see the security guard trying terribly hard to ignore them. Ten on ten for effort. It is as if he has become so detached from the type of people usually at this station that he cannot even consider the seriousness of this situation.

I get up and walk quickly towards the couple, "What happened?"

"I don't know like we were walking and she just like... fell." Her voice breaks and she starts crying. My chest tightens slightly. I move the unconscious girl so she's lying on her side.

My voice is firm, but my face neutral, "What did she take?"

"There was a bunch of pills. Maybe Oxy or I don't even know."

"What's her name?"

"Tam... please help me. I don't know what to do." Her voice is shaking, her eyes wild and lost. I know then that I need to give her something to do.

"I want you to see that security guard. Tell him he needs to call an ambulance. Stay with him until he does. I'll take care of her." My voice is clear, I’m hoping it’s strong enough to break through the fog that the drugs and stress have created in her mind.

I check the girl's pupils. Pinpoints. She definitely used some sort of opioid. I rub my knuckles on the girl’s sternum trying to get a reaction. The girl's hand twitches and she groans weakly. From afar I can see the security guard talking using his walkie-talkie. I can only hope he is making the right call. I continue trying to get the girl to respond for what seems like an eternity. Once again, I wonder why this always happens while I’m around.

I feel someone kneel down beside me. A delicate hand reaches for the girl's wrist, taking her pulse. "Holy Hufflepuff, what happened here?" She asks, not looking at me, eyes quickly scanning, analyzing the young girl.

It comes out of me automatically, in a knee-jerk fashion. Like a habit too old to let go, "Well, nothing extraordinary, buttercup. She collapsed while walking. Possible opioid overdose. Respiratory depression and a decreased level of consciousness that has persisted for the past five minutes."

It is at that precise moment that she finally looks at me. I guess I had not really looked at her either. Her eyes lock with mine, eyebrows raised and eyes round, as if surprised we speak the same language. Although serious, she has a face that looks like it never learned how to frown or cry. Her light brown, almost blond, hair is in a messy bun and she is wearing plain clothes. There is a pack of cookies sticking out of her bag. She looks tired. I see the way she takes in my attire, my messy curls, the dark makeup and the holes in my leather pants. I cannot determine if she is judging or just assessing the situation. My eyes are on her, unflinching. Perhaps waiting for a reaction. Well, that is until we hear the beautiful sound of the girl vomiting.

"Well, it was definitely a good idea to put her on her side," She mumbles bitterly. “I don't understand why she keeps doing this to herself."

I frown, confused, "You know her?"

She sits down crossed legged, almost like a child in a playground, "Well I've gotten to know her. I'm a nurse at the General, sometimes I have to take extra shifts in the emergency unit. Last month I spent a whole week in emerg for the night shift. Usually, I’m in the oncology unit. But I guess you have an idea how it is, the hospital is like Swiss cheese. There's holes everywhere and so we all end up doing extra shifts in pretty much every unit. And, let me tell you – not always my favorite units. But whatever, I guess that’s all right for me there’s always action in my day and it pretty much cured my insomnia because the by the time I’m in bed I’m just too crapped out to do anything but sleep and...” She blushes once she realizes she has just given me her work schedule in less than ten seconds. “Sorry, I guess the rambling is a side-effect of the seven and a half cookies I ate in one bus ride,” She adds.

I simply look at her. Her cheerful tone feels like lemonade in summer. Refreshing, but somewhat awkward for this winter cold. I would have pegged her as a pediatric nurse, having a hard time seeing that sunshine of a girl in oncology.

"You can go now, don't worry about her. I'll take care of her" she continues.

I shake my head, "I would rather wait until the EMT arrive."

She looks at me again, there is a clear softening in her features. "Are you – are you two a couple?"

I shake my head again, determined to look anywhere but at the nurse, "I told her girlfriend I would take care of her."

Other than saying the unconscious girl's name a few times when her respiration seemed to decrease, we sit in silence. I can feel her eyes on me, almost like I'm supposed to recognize her. I guess I just don’t know what to do about that, even though I’m used to the occasional stares. The EMT and the girl's girlfriend arrives and the nurse gives them the little information we know. When they leave the place is so quiet it feels almost surreal.

She gets up and I realize how short she is. She bites her lower lip slightly, "This is the worst part of this city. I wish I didn’t have to come here so often. It’s probably not the first time you’ve seen something like this.”

I look at her with a blank face, "So this isn’t Disney Land? Someone clearly sold me the wrong bus ticket.”

She looks at her feet and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She looks like she's debating something. Probably wants to ask me if I'm the one who sells her drugs.

I roll my eyes, "I'm not the one who sold her drugs." I turn to leave. For some unknown reason, I still feel the need to defend myself after all this time.

Her voice stops me, "No, that’s not what I was – well, actually I was wondering if I could buy you coffee or hot chocolate or something, for helping out that girl. I mean people don't usually give their time like this for a stranger and I think it’s quite -"

I'm shocked. Maybe most wouldn't be at this act of kindness, but I really am. This differs from someone just throwing change your way. Coffee means contact. It means sitting down. It means talking. The girl is beautiful. This is a truth that cannot be denied. But we tend to avoid those who don't live on the streets. It's safer that way. And I have no reason to be meddling with a normal, average nurse. Besides, I need to get back to Silas before the crazy drunks get thrown out of the bars.

I cut her off. "Thanks, but no thanks, cupcake. I need to get going."

She looks at me almost like she expected that answer. Her eyes on me again, I can feel her struggling to see what would be the best thing to say. Her hand searches for something in her purse. Here, it is – she will give me pity money. She saw me playing for money and now she’s going to give me some change. I rather have nothing than pity money. In my case, it's quite literal, the tiniest amount of pride I have left. That's why I play guitar instead of just holding a cup. It makes me feel like I'm somewhat working for the money I'm getting.

"All right, then take this -” I can't help but raise one eyebrow. She gives me a tube of cream. This better not be lube or some type of medication for vaginal infections. On the label, I can read it's an antimicrobial ointment. I am both relieved and surprised.

"For your tattoo," She adds and smiles. I don't know why this is worth so much more than a coffee or money.

I awkwardly take it from her hand. She grabs her bag and turns to leave. I do the same, walking in the opposite direction. This need builds up in my gut and I do not understand the desire to look at her one last time. The moment I have my eyes on the back of her head she turns her head, our eyes meet as if on cue. It is only when I am facing forward again that the air momentarily trapped in my lungs is freed again.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

In the day, I sometimes I sit in the park in front of the hospital. Certain days I feel like a ghost haunting its own home – never quite able to understand it is no longer needed. I like seeing the never ending flow of people coming in and out. Usually, it’s easy to tell which nurse or doctor just finished a double shift. They look at the sky, seeming surprised to see it still there. You see them take air into their lungs in the same manner arms cradle a child. Like it is both fragile and precious. There is something soothing in the routine. In seeing the hospital stand like it was something mechanic or even alive. Often nurses will pass in the park, by my bench, to go to the nearest entry to the metro, eyes glazed and tired. Sometimes smiles lingering on lips or the shadow of a frown. Often left over medical equipment falls from their pockets without them ever stepping outside their thoughts. I am lucky on those days, the gauze and alcohol swabs are always useful. Sometimes I find notes from the nurse’s shifts. Those are kept as well and read them as though they are something religious or holy. I try to imagine what happened in the time they worked and what could happen with the group of people they cared for. When the notes are memorized, I burn them to respect the privacy of those who are sick.

I see a man sitting on the bench opposite from mine. His fists are clenched, his lip quivering. This happens often. Sometimes family members get news or live situations in which they cannot cope. The first reflex is often to flee. To get fresh air to calm hearts beating a little too fast. They usually get that break here, in this beaten up park. Even the trees look heavy with the accumulation of unsaid words, worries, desperation, and sadness. Sometimes strangers look at me, and I can see what I seem to them; a skinny punk and a vagrant. A girl who looks too unapproachable to be pitied. Sometimes I can see they see me as nothing but a failure. But often they do not see me. I think it’s that invisibility that makes it that so many of those fled family members gravitate to me. Or maybe I’m simply there at the right time.

The man looks at me. To most, he would be a source of fear. This man could appear angry. But I know that look in his eyes. Maybe as much as I understand the routine of a hospital. He is devastated, and doesn’t know how to deal with what he is living now. I hold his gaze, giving him a slight smile. His gaze turns to his lap, where he is playing with his hands nervously.

I trust my gut, “Hello.”

“Hello,” he stutters.

We sit in silence for a while until he says, “I don’t know how I’m supposed to do what I’m required to do.” I know that in this moment, I'm replacing someone he would rather give those words to.

I wait awhile before answering, “What do you feel is required of you?”

It is then he cries. I almost feel bad for not having tissues, but then I remember that comfort can be found in falling tears. It is sometimes soothing to feel them on our skin. A sense of validation of the pain that is felt.

His voice is weak and breaks, “I will have to watch my wife die.”

I get up to sit next to him and put my hand on his shoulder for a few seconds. His shoulders tremble with the sobs and people walking in the park are trying harder to ignore him than me.

“The doctor came in and told us that the cancer had spread. The chemo will not cure her anymore. Told her right in the middle of her breakfast. It was the first time since she started her treatment she had asked to eat, you know? The chemo kept making her nauseous. And then he tells her that. Kicks the appetite right out of the field. He could have at least let her finish her breakfast. I don’t even understand what we will do next. And I have to be strong for her but I just don’t know how to anymore.”

There is a moment of pure silence. The wind has died down and the snow is coming down gently.

I shrug, “Sometimes the only strength that is required is the strength needed to be present.”

He wipes his cheeks with the sleeve of his coat and stands. He turns to face me and puts out a hand for me to shake.

“When you see your wife, ask for the nurse. They’re able to make sense of things. She’ll make sure you’re both not alone.” I say softly.

As I watched him leave, I was hit by an image of my mother with an intensity I had not felt for quite a while. I saw myself as a child in her clinic on the day we had to follow our parents to work to learn what they did. Regardless of youth, I understood that my mother’s hard serious face and complicated words were saying something that hurt the person on the other side of her desk. I saw myself asking my mother why she had made the lady sad.

_Her voice, as cold as it always was, “If you act a certain way, Carmilla, you get the consequences. The woman made herself sick.”_

I frown at this memory, nausea creeping on me as well. I now understand that with the complexity that being human entails, it is never that simple.

 

* * *

 

My first stop on the way back is the mall downtown. I go there to fill up my canteens in the water fountain that’s near the entrance. This mall is near the organic grocery store (from the dumpster diving I get: a few vegetables, two bruised but otherwise good apples, tofu dogs a day after the expiration date, a loaf of bread, and soy milk). I also go the various donation bins that are on my way back to Silas. Sometimes if I’m lucky the bins are overfilled and bags of donations are left on the ground. Today I am lucky. It is a garbage bag too big to fit in my backpack, so I carry it in my hands, hoping that contents will be worth freezing my hands.

On days like this, I am happy to come “home”. Before entering, I look around making sure no one that could report us to the police is present. The doors and windows of Silas are boarded up. The only way in is a hole in the back of the house. We keep it hidden behind pieces of wood and junk. This keeps out strangers or animals. LaFontaine evaluated that we were safer in the basement – the first and second floors have, supposedly, “structural damages”. Which is why we freeze the sum of our anatomy in the basement. When I arrive in the basement I see only Perry and LaFontaine. They are sitting on their mattress, currently adorned with probably the tackiest blankets ever made. Perry is continuing her knitting project while LaF is looking at her with a mixture of longing and amazement. They literally know all about surviving on the streets; where to get food, where to get dressed, the places where you can wash. But they, for some reason that will forever stay unknown to humankind, cannot knit.

“I don’t understand why you don’t know how to do it, LaFontaine. I must have showed you fifteen times.”

“How am I supposed to learn when your fingers are moving at a speed too rapid for the eyesight of the common human?” They roll their eyes.

She smiles. “If you want to say you’re impressed you can just do so.”

“What I’m really impressed by is –“

I cut them off by coughing, notifying them of my presence. Making my way to my yoga mat under the stairs, I fumble with the edge of the bag somewhat excitedly. A closed bag, filled like this one, is a present. Speculating on what could be inside this bag kept me warm the whole way back home as the wind found its way to my skin. I can feel their eyes on me.

In the bag I find; one blanket with a Disney princess on it, an extra-large knitted gray jumper (clearly looks like someone’s first project), a pair of thick socks and a few t-shirts that won’t fit me. I keep the blanket, the socks, the jumper and two black t-shirts to patch up damaged clothing and throw the rest of the back to Perry. I am more excited to see what she will make with these clothes than I am for the contents of the bag. Of course, I don’t let this show.

She squeals, “Thank you Carmilla, that’s just so kind.”

I shrug my shoulders and share a look with Laf. It just happened gradually – this understanding about Perry. We both know how important she is. We both know we would drown if it wasn’t for her sun-like intensity, her normalization of everything and her denial of everything that goes wrong. She goes through the bag and separates them into piles. She finally takes the red shirt and cuts it into strips to make was she calls “the poor woman’s wool.” Then, she sews the ends of the strips of cloth to one another. It makes a long strip that she rolls into a ball. Much like yarn. She told us this was the technique her grandmother used to make carpets. Say’s they have done this for generations because no material is wasted. I guess she’s quite clever too, in her own way. She even uses our old clothes, giving them a second life. She made me a scarf out of all my broken black clothes. It’s thick and lumpy but mostly warm. I am thankful for that scarf and the warmth it brings me when I walk outside. She even made LaFontaine a scarf out of their old clothes – a scarf made of t-shirts with animal prints. Hideous and ridiculous, just like LaF likes their clothes.

I go to our makeshift freezer, a wooden box filled with snow, placed in the coldest corner of the basement. Our names are carved into the wood. This which allows for no confusion with the “freezers” of the other members of the group, when there was more of us. I guess out of all the unexpected things that have happened, I could never have predicted becoming part of a group. I never was one for big groups, partnerships or team sports. Don’t think I even liked people for the majority of my life. When we get large amounts of food like I just did, we share it. Except for the soy milk. That I keep for myself. I was hesitant to share at first. Feared that I might lose more than I got and would end up hungry. The fear of hunger is one of the few things that remains. It is a constant, nagging fear. But this system works. We are able to eat everything before anything rots, and sometimes between the three of us we have enough to make a somewhat balanced meal.

A month and a half after I left home, the hunger followed me everywhere. It invades your thoughts until thinking about anything else is painful. One morning as I was getting ready for my day, I realized I could fit my fist between my skin and pants. A pair of jeans that were once skin tight now had to be held against my hips with an abandoned shoe lace. I had spent all the money I had left on food. It didn’t last more than two months. I discovered dumpster diving by luck. Before all of this, it was something I had never heard of. Trust me when I say it is a concept that Mother would have beaten out of my mind. One night I was walking aimlessly, trying to stay awake. I had learned the hard way it’s better to sleep in the day. It is safer. I saw this group of wannabe hippies and followed them at a distance.

From a distance, I heard, “I found about five bags of Doritos. It’s maybe not vegan but still. That’s like…”

By then I was dreaming about food. So I followed them.

 

* * *

 

I’m sitting against the wall of a tall building, on a busy street. My cap is upside down on the ground and I’m strumming my guitar. I think I have gathered a little less than 5 dollars. I’ll have enough to wash all my clothes at the laundromat and buy a candle to light up the dark basement of Silas. Once my guitar is back in my bag and the change is pocketed, I start making my way to the nearest laundromat. My breath trails behind me like smoke. It is then that I hear someone following me. When I turn around, I see only the empty streets.

I let out a shaky breath when I see the neon lights of my destination. Although no one else is there, I know there’s a camera in the top corner of the room. No one would do anything in such an obvious place. I look through the window. Again, I see no one.

I am sitting, snacking on the tofu dogs I found before when I hear a knocking at the door. A frown breaks out on my normally stoic face. A black cat is on its hind legs, using its paws to knock on the window of the laundromat. At first, I am certain the tofu dogs are rotten and I’m just hallucinating. As soon as I open the door the cat quickly enters. For a few moments, we both look at each other, immobile while doing so. I look at the creature as if it might have a reason for its presence. Once I realized I have let a stray cat into a public space, which could give the cops an easy reason to throw me out of here or worse, I try to scare it off. This cat is not scared by my noise or the hand motions I am making to towards it. It sits on the chair I was sitting on before indifferently like it owns it. I shrug and sit on the one next to it. It dawns on me, that this cat is trying to do the same as I am. Which is trying to survive using everything it can. With one last look at the creature, determined not to give it pity, I give it a cut off a piece of the tofu dog. The cat eats it with appetite. I share with it most of the food I had brought with me.

I make my way back to Silas, the black cat following in total silence. No matter how many times I swear at it, it follows me at a safe distance. Once I reach Silas, I enter quickly, making sure it doesn't follow. The building shields me from the wind and in its heat, guilt starts to build within me. It only dissipates when I remind myself that this cat can find a better home than mine.

 

* * *

 

My tedious routine remains the same. I spend every day balancing which needs will be tended to. I sleep during the day, play songs in the streets in the evening, and dumpster dive by night. Yet a difference in the routine cannot be ignored. A tiny persistence is constantly at my heels. For the past week, it has slept near the entrance of Silas. Every evening it gets out from its hiding place and follows me. It waits outside of Rico’s when I go to wash. It sniffs the pile of food I build next to the dumpsters. It climbs on my shoulder when I play guitar. I have never gotten this much money from playing since I started. I pay the cat back for her help by buying her a cans of cat food. It creeps up on me until one day I realize it’s impossible for me to ignore my fondness for this little creature. It’s hard for me to accept. Animals die and run away. They are another mouth to feed.

Yet, I look out the window of Rico’s to make sure it’s still waiting for me. I share with it the food I find. I pat its head when it’s on my shoulder. After a few weeks, I realize that I cannot reason with this animal. Since I’ve started to live with them, no member of the group has had a pet. So I decide to ask them if they could let her live in Silas with us. Perry was ecstatic. LaFontaine was uncertain. The group generally feared a flea infestation. They agreed as long as I make sure it has no fleas.

Which explains why I am currently outside with Perry and the cat, combing it's fur to look for fleas. She is releasing the enthusiasm of the strength of ten thousand suns while the animal is looking at me like it’s cursing my ancestors.

There is a broad smile that has graced her face ever since we stepped outside. “I never took you for the cat lover, Carmilla.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are! Look at how delicate you are with it. You really adore her. LaFontaine and I have a blanket with a huge cat on it – oh my – we should definitely give it to you. You know, since you love cats so much.” She turns to look at me, “Wouldn’t you like it Carmilla? You could put it on your mattress instead of that dreadful princess you desecrated with a Sharpie. Also, I’m sure LaFontaine has a t-shirt with a cat printed on it, I’m sure they –“

I cut her off with, “No.”

She waves dismissively, “You don’t have to be shy Carmilla, I’m sure they wouldn’t mind giving it to you once we explain to them how much you love cats.”

I throw a dirty look her way, “No.”

“It’s okay, I understand. You want to look tough. I won’t ask them for the cat t-shirt in front of the others.”

I roll my eyes and bite my lower lip to keep a smile from breaking out.

We continue combing the cat until we are certain she is free of fleas. I am thankful for this because earlier in the evening LaF crafted this anti-flea potion. I am certain it could get rid of the infestation, but it would probably be strong enough to burn the pigment out of its fur.

Perry voice snaps me out of my thoughts, “You should give it a name, since we are certain to keep it now.”

In my mind, I go back to a time that feels like another lifetime. “I think I’d like Mircalla.”

 

* * *

 

We make our way to the basement. Perry has Mircalla in her arms. The black cat is resting in such a docile fashion, you could never guess it had spent a day in the streets. We slowly make our way downstairs. I see LaFontaine sitting on their bed, their arms on their abdomen. Pain is obvious, their features twisted in a grimace.

I sit down to get at their level. “What happened?”

Their breathing is labored and their knuckles white as they grip the sheets. “I’ve had this weird pain for a while – but it just seems to have gotten really worse.”

I make them lie down, “Show me where it hurts?” They point to the right side of her abdomen. I try to keep my face blank. The skin is intact and free of scars.

“You’re going to hate me for this,” I say before I check for rebound tenderness. As I predicted, they scream out in pain and hit my arm.

I look at Perry, “I need to get them to the hospital.”

I see her eyes widen and she quickly brings a hand to her mouth. She’s vocalized her fear of hospitals many times before. We help LaF up the stairs. As we are getting out of Silas, I see Bonnie coming towards us, pushing an overflowing grocery cart. The grocery cart is filled with pink objects; a desk missing a leg, blankets, a plastic chair made for children. Her eyes are unfocused and her pupils are dilated. Great.

Bonnie flashes an innocent smile at us before pointing to her cart, “Guys! Come and see what I found! Items to decorate the Candy Kingdom! It’s going to be so pre-“

  
“That’s really great Princess, but right now LaFontaine and I need your cart. We need it to get to Hogwarts to destroy the ring of power in the Tardis.” I use all the nerd language I can muster and hope it will be able to convince her.

She looks at us with wide eyes and starts unpacking the cart. I waste no time and help her. Once empty I get LaF to climb in it.

“It will be faster and less painful,” I explain.

I turn towards Perry, “I will come back to give you news. They will be okay.”

Bonnie’s confused eyes are shifting between LaF, Perry and me. She quickly puts one of the pink blankets on LaF and pats their head. So, I then start running towards the hospital I trust the most.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all of you that either gave kudos, left comments or even just read it up to this point.  
> For any questions or just to talk: reallylikesogay.tumblr.com


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

The bright neon lights are making even the dirt under my nails look clinical. I look at the clock for what seems like the thousandth time. It’s officially been two hours since they took LaFontaine into the OR. This is a bit too long for a simple appendectomy. Which leaves me expecting the worst. Images of the possible complications are on repeat in my mind. Skin pale with blood loss, a monitor screaming. They were too warm to the touch and they took them in too quickly.

It’s a simple procedure. They do it all the time.

I say it over and over again. Yet, it does nothing to slow down the air moving quickly in and out my lungs. There is nothing to distract me right now. I fidget with the edge of a patch on my pants. Twenty minutes later, the doctor comes out. His lack of gray hair and nonchalant attitude gets an unimpressed glare from my part. He informs me that the surgery went well, but that there were some complications.

I don’t waste any time, “Did you go laparoscopically?”

He nods, “And by the time we visualized the appendix, it had already ruptured and-“

“Were there any abscesses present? Signs of peritonitis?”

“The infection was limited to the appendix. We cleaned the peritoneum and left in a drain –“

I sigh, relieved, letting myself fall back down on the chair. I could kiss this dumb cocky man child. Things go much quicker after. Once LaF is awake, an orderly takes us to the surgical unit. In the first hours the nurse in charge of them comes in and out quite often, taking their vital signs, measuring the liquid coming out of their drain. In the meantime, I quickly try to get a feel of this floor. We are quite close to the nursing station. I learn that the nurse manager of this unit is called Danny Lawrence. She appears to be present on the floor and well-liked by the nursing staff but forgot to get a nurse to replace one that just went on a two-week vacation. This means either over time for the regular nurses or inexperienced nurses from other units. And lots of bitching, apparently. This could be a very good or horrible thing for LaFontaine. I learn that this week the night nurses are harsh old ones that they should avoid at all cost. LaF is still a little silly from all the medication they got. They keep trying to play with their Jackson-Pratt drain. I keep slapping their hand away. So far, they have done this about ten times. Usually, I would be bothered. I guess the situation is making me more tolerant.

The nurse comes in once again, taking their vital signs, looking at their wound dressings and leaves.

They stare at the nursing leaving, “What a ray of sunshine.”

I shrug, “It could be worse. Surgical nurses aren’t the type to hold your hand and whisper sweet nothings in your ear for you to fall asleep. But they are the ones you want to take care of you post-op if your organs start fucking up on you.” I see them trying to find the small drain again.

“What is that? What is this juice?” They say quietly, perplexed.

I roll my eyes. “Hey Doritos, that thing is mine and if you touch it, I swear to the gods I will rip your IV out and watch you bleed to death.”

They look at me and suddenly stop moving. They eventually fall asleep. I make sure they are breathing adequately. I then write a small note for when they wake up (Dear Hydromorphone, I’ve gone back to Silas to give an update. Don’t talk to the nurses during the night shift unless you are a second away from death).

 

* * *

 

The cold air stings my cheeks as I make my way to the hospital. The streets are quiet at this time. I am thankful the roads are dry enough for me to skate. It might be the only thing keeping me warm. We try our best to avoid prolonged periods in this temperature. Once the cold settles in you, it’s very hard to get rid of. Especially when you live in a basement of a barely insulated abandoned house. My slightly oversized green army coat is making it slightly harder for me to move my body to the rhythm of my skate. The mismatched buttons are barely holding it closed (pink, orange and blue, courtesy of Perry). I bring Perry’s DIY scarf higher to cover my nose. I bring my approximately 300-year-old beanie lower, an attempt to cover my ears. They are already aching. I still have about fifteen minutes of travel left. The sun is slowly making its way down. I am already anticipating the agonizing way back, in that freezing darkness. I will have about three hours with LaF before the visiting hours are over.

A shiver runs through me, with such a strength that I cringe. Three layers of clothing aren’t enough to keep the wind out. I quickly take the black cat from my shoulder and put her in my coat, holding her against my chest. I wish this idiotic creature would listen to me, instead of stubbornly, blindly, following me. I will need to make a shelter for it if it’s to stay three hours in the cold. It starts purring. I roll my eyes.

I can definitely say that I’ve never been this happy to see a hospital. I make my way to the back of the hospital, near the dumpsters. I am hoping to find some cardboard boxes to make a shelter for the cat. Once I am satisfied with the arrangement, I take off my sweater and use it to cover the bottom of the “shelter”. I take out a tin of cat food and open it in the box. This is our usual arrangement. I know that she will stay there until I come back.

I make eye contact with her one last time before heading in. A relieved sigh slips between my lips once the warm air of the hospital hits me. I am receiving a couple of stares regardless of the fact that I am currently wearing the most casual clothes I own. Could be worse. I am barely out of the elevators and I can hear two nurses arguing near the entrance to the abdominal surgery unit that LaFontaine is in.

“There is no way in hell or Hogwarts that I’m going to fill in until Betty comes back – she’s going to be gone for three months and –”

“Why the hell not Laura?” A very, very tall redhead exclaims.

“Danny Lawrence, you know very well why. It’s actually the first thing I tell anyone I meet – I am not a surgical nurse. I hate surgery and aim to be as far from surgical wounds as possible-”

The giant cuts her off with a sarcastic laugh, “So what, you’d rather be as close to neoplasms as humanly possible? It doesn’t even make sense. To the point, it would make more sense for you to say you like working in ortho surgery with that dude douche Kirsch. Your unit is quite literally, the most depressing place in all the hospital. Even the morgue has a better vibe. It’s too depressing for you Laura, you’re going to get sick from all those depressing cases.”

I can only see the back of the smaller nurse’s head, and it seems the giant said exactly the right thing to turn her into a tiny ball of rage.

“So now it’s your job to assess what is too depressing for me –”

She cuts her off again, “Well clearly it is!”

There’s a moment of awkward silence.

“We are friends, we are roommates, but don’t ever mistake yourself to be anything other than that. I didn’t leave the house of one controlling parent to the home of another. I know what I can and can’t handle.”

“Laura-”

I quickly walk into the unit, soundlessly passing the arguing nurses.

“No. I’ll fill in for the rest of the week. Only because I need the hours,” I hear the smaller one say.

By the time I reach LaF’s room my face is neutral again. When I walk in they are piling juice containers on their table. I make a sound in their general direction to inform them of my arrival. They quickly turn around. I make my way to the semi-comfortable chair next to their bed.

“Carmilla! You have no idea how happy I am to see your cheerful face.”

I pretend to gag.

“Probably the first and only time someone will ever say this to you; you literally the most cheerful individual I've seen all day.” They look at me, eyes big and focused, and a smile hidden in her tone.

“I bet.” I take off my bag, and start undoing its various straps. Shivers are still passing through me. I’m trying to hold them in. I realize I’m not as subtle as I would like when LaF throws me one of the thick blankets from their bed. I wait for their inevitable question.

“So… How is Perry?” They finally ask, voice filled with barely hidden worry.

“She is fine. Fine enough to hit me multiple times with random objects – Carmilla Karnstein you will give me every detail I don’t care if you think I’m too simple to understand I will have every last piece of information or I will bleach all of your clothes to a pale beige.” I imitate in an exaggerated fashion Perry’s voice, overly high-pitched and shrill, my arms feigning twitchy motions.

They laugh at my imitation, “But she is okay right?”

“Yeah. For now she is. I, on the other hand, now have auditory problems more commonly seen in the geriatric population.” I take my book out of my bag.

“Good. Kind of jealous. I keep hearing things I really, truly don’t need to hear today.” They look suspiciously at the entrance of their room before continuing, “Do you know what a fecaloma is?”

I snort, a bit louder than I expected.

They continue, “So, the day nurse gave the man in the room next to mine a type of juice to prep him for a sort of exam. And then, a few hours later she goes in the room and comes out quickly asking for help because apparently she found a fecaloma. So, obviously, I got worried. The last thing I need is some viral infection, untreatable by modern medecine.I asked the nurse when she took my vital signs if I had any chance to catch a fecaloma-“

“Did she give you the long or short answer?”

“Well, let’s just say that I walked around a lot today and drank about five liters of water.”

I hide my smile behind my book.

They continue, “Seriously Carmilla, this place is like heaven. They have showers, and when we tell them we want to go, they give us free soap and towels. And, also they have this like sort of kitchen, where there’s hot water, and tea bags left over from a patient who refused them. If you go after meals they leave some half eaten trays and sometimes they still have fully wrapped snacks or desserts. They have those cookies you dip in tea? You know the ones that are individually wrapped? That Perry absolutely loves? I’ve been keeping them for her. So far, I have ten of them. Also, my neighbor has been too nauseous to eat anything so I had double portions today. I’ve never been so full in my life. I’ve also been keeping the juice cups for Silas. I figured here I could drink the water and if we got really dehydrated or something we could drink the juice. It’s full of sugar. To top it all off, my vitals are good and I’m not even feeling much pain – and JP is doing okay too.”

I look up at them, frowning, “JP? Who is that? Did you take anything for pain today?”

“No JP, my Jackson-Pratt. The drain.”

“Oh.” I bring the book back to its original position.

I like the sounds of a hospital. The voices of the nurses at the station, the machines beeping and the sound of shoes on the floor. It’s soothing. The sounds mixed with the heat is making it hard for me to focus on the words. But I know that I must. If I fall asleep I fear it will be hard to leave when the visiting hours are over. How can the warmth compare to the bitter cold that’s going to follow me back to Silas?

“Do you want a tea? Or some Jell-O I still have left over from supper?”

“I’ll have the tea.”

They explain to me how to reach the small kitchen where they have hot water. On the counter, there is an abandoned cookie, still in its wrapper. I quickly open it and eat it as I make my way back with a warm cup between my hands. If I didn’t have so much self-control, my smile would be so big that it would probably break my face in half. When I enter LaF’s room again, a nurse is bending down, putting a cuff their arm to take their blood pressure. She is wearing a floral uniform top that is so intense that I recognize her from the argument with the nurse manager. She is definitely, truly, not a surgical nurse. She lifts her head up to look at me, wisps of hair fallen from her messy bun on her face. My palms get sweaty, and I feel my heart hitting against my chest. I recognize her immediately. It’s the same nurse that offered me coffee the night I found a girl who had overdosed in the metro. I don’t understand this rush of adrenaline. I keep repeating in my head, she doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, it’s not important.

I put my tea on LaF’s table. The nurse is looking at me, with her soft eyes. Her questioning stare confirms that she remembers me. It also seems like she is trying to remember something. I try to avoid looking at her, looking instead at the machine that’s taking their vital signs.

“Well, 118/63, that’s an excellent blood pressure. Heart rate is at 68 per minute, that’s very good. Your oxygen saturation is 99% and that’s also great.” The small nurse says, rather rapidly and with a smile.

She continues, “Combined with a temperature of 36.7, and a very clean dressing, I’d say you’re doing very well Lafontaine.”

She slowly makes her way to where I am standing, offers me her hand to shake, “Hello, my name is Laura Hollis, I’m going to be LaFontaine’s nurse for the next few days. You must be…”

Both the small nurse and LaFontaine are looking at me. I hesitate before shaking her hand, “Carmilla.”

The smiles she gives me is so bright it almost gives me a sunburn, “I know who you are! You’re the vampire,” she excitedly exclaims.

The face I make then is the universal face for “what the fuck”. I am thankful that LaFontaine speaks up because I am at a loss of words. I’ve been called a lot of things, but a vampire? I guess I couldn't see that one coming.

“I can assure you, Laura, despite the pale skin and dark clothes, that she is human. She is my sister, the one I talked to you earlier about.” I can tell by the tone of their voice that they are as equally confused as I am. I am surprised that the lie comes so effortlessly out of their mouth.

The girl shakes her head, laughing a little, “Wow, that is so me, I’m sorry you both must be so lost. It’s just that you have a good reputation here Carmilla. One of the EMTs that work the night shift was impressed by your constant, well, good timing. You know, the name came up because you are often there when there’s a trauma or someone is near death. Like in a good way I swear, you have a good reputation, like a modern hero of some sort. It’s just he didn’t know your name and the nickname stuck. And, since it often happens and patients sometimes talk about you, the nurses in the emergency unit have started to look forward to getting the people you’ve seen first.”

I am mortified. I try very hard not to let it show. “I am not a hero of any sort, cupcake.”

She smiles at me, so sweetly, it’s like she didn’t hear my response. “I’m just saying that if there’s anything I can do, let me know. Okay, so I’ll see you guys in a bit!”

She quickly makes her way to the other side of the curtain, where LaFontaine’s neighbor is sleeping. I make my way back to the chair, and my blanket. I’m trying very hard to understand what just happened. Turns out that this little human is considerably more intense than my random physical fits.

I am halfway through a page in my book when, “So…”

I look at LaFontaine, an eyebrow raised, “Shut up you warm glass of orange juice. I don’t want to hear about this ever again.”

“Sure thing Dracula.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, for all the nice comments that motivated me to continue this story.


	5. Chapter 5

  


 

The streetlights have all burned out and it is becoming hard to see. I am making my way through the shadows, walking fast. I can taste the blood in my mouth. I know I am being followed and if I turn around they will catch me. I feel a hand on my shoulder –

The sound of metal clashing on metal wakes me up. My confused eyes search the now dark room before stopping on LaF’s nurse. She bites her lip slightly before mouthing an “I’m sorry” before making her way with her machine to take LaF’s vitals. I can feel myself slowly drifting back to sleep when a sudden realization hits me. I look at the clock and see that visiting hours have been over for thirty minutes.

The last thing I want is to be banned from visiting. I quickly get up and start packing my things back in my bag, “I’m sorry, I fell asleep and didn’t realize the visiting hours were over and –”

The tiny oncology nurse shrugs, “Honestly, I don’t mind if you stay. It’s not like your causing any trouble and it’s very unsafe to drive when you’re tired. I mean, the last thing you would want is to leave here only to come back an hour later in a stretcher. My shift ends at midnight – if you want you can stay still then. If we were in the oncology unit it wouldn’t even be an issue, but here they are extra strict on visiting hours. So you should probably leave before the night nurses start their shift.”

I try not to think about her kind eyes and the softness in her tone, “I would not want to get you in trouble.”

She smiles and shakes her head, “If they want to punish me for something so silly, I can handle it. Maybe I’ll fight them with my awesome communication skills and get a badass reputation like yours.”

I roll my eyes and feel a slight heat rise to my cheeks. Sarcasm makes its familiar way into my tone, “I have a feeling that badass is a word often used to describe you.”

She takes no offense and puts her hands on her hips, “You’d be surprised. I can be very badass.”

What a dork. I bring my hand to my face quickly to hide a smile. I don’t think she notices.

“Okay, so I’m going to continue my rounds. But still, my shift ends at midnight, feel free to stay until then.” And with that quickly said sentence she is out the door.

It’s hard to find something soft and kind here. The roads are broken, the buildings cold, people’s faces as apathetic as mine probably appears to be. That’s probably why this small human stands out. Like a dandelion in the pavement – precious and rare in these conditions. While if anywhere else, would appear irrelevant and common. Naive and provincial. I am ashamed of myself. I wonder if taking the cat in has made me weaker. More easily affected.

While I was lost in thought, it appears I have missed a heated conversation happening near LaF’s room. I make my way closer to the door but remain out of sight.

“Laura, come on, let me at least give you a ride back to the apartment after your shift.” I recognize this voice of the tall skyscraper of a person who had argued with her earlier. Her attempt at whispering is a complete failure.

The small nurse huffs, “Drop it. I’d rather walk home.”

“You know you need to pass through a few shady streets to get back, what if someone –”

“Just go. I don’t want your help. If anything happens I’ll call the police or The Avengers or something.”

“Laura wait –”

“No, I need to finish my rounds if I don’t want to leave at two am with the night nurses breathing down my neck.”

I’m glad to admit this in the privacy of my own head, in a room with only sleeping people: the tall mess is right. The streets around this hospital are filled with, let’s say, not the most collaborative individuals of this city. I sigh and make my way back to my chair. I bring a blanket to my chin. It’s none of my business anyways. The tiny dork will be fine. The tiny, kind, dork will probably make her way rapidly to where she lives. Whatever.

  


* * *

 

 

Whatever. I am embarrassed, although glad no human being is present to witness it. The cat is sitting patiently on my shoulder as I reach out to pat its soft head. I’m just paying back a debt. The nurse let me sleep in the warmth of the hospital. I owe it to her. So that is why I am leaning against a wall, with a clear view of the exit for employees, at 12:10 am. I hide my hands in my pockets to warm them up. Five minutes later I see a familiar messy bun getting out, a crimson scarf wrapped around her neck, thick and comfortable. I keep a reasonable distance and follow her. I would probably collapse and melt into the dirty streets if she saw me. Out of pure humiliation. I can’t shake off the feeling that I’m probably looking like a predator right now. Either way, for the greater good, I presume.

She looks down the streets three times before crossing them. Her steps are rapid but steady regardless of the thin layer of snow that now covers the streets. The street lights seem to bring out the golden tones in her hair, which is obviously irrelevant, but makes it easier for me to follow. My combat boots are so worn down they leave traces in the snow soundlessly. This is a skill I have thoroughly practiced. Often it is best to remain unheard and unseen. We make our way down a few streets. The snow has kept people away from the streets, and for that I am thankful. Eventually, we get to a nicer part of the city. She stops at a tall building about a thirty-minute walking distance from Silas. I turn around when she makes her way into the building and make my way back. A debt paid, and a mind calmed.

It starts to snow, softly on my way back. With this type of snow the weather seems to warm up. I try not to think of how hard it’s going to be for LaF to return to Silas after living and sleeping in the warmth of the hospital. Where they have meals, showers and warm water. And nurses who talk to them respectfully. I had always thought of hospital gowns as dehumanizing. But I think it might be the opposite – maybe it gives every individual the chance to get the best care they can. To be judged on the things we can help. I can’t help but think about the oncology nurse with her rapid, annoying, high-pitched voice and warm eyes. About the way the stray pieces of hair followed the wind. About the shade of her skin and how good it looked with the warm color of her scarf.

By the time I arrive at Silas I’m holding the black cat against my chest and I feel my cheeks burning. The stairs down to the basement ache in protest as I make my way down. Bonnie is sitting on her bed with a very confused expression on her face. I follow her stare until it lands on Perry. She is moving around quickly, picking up objects and organizing them. I look at my bed and raise an eyebrow. The blankets are perfectly arranged, not a fold can be found. All my stuff is arranged, side by side as if arranged using a ruler. As soon as she notices me she drops the plastic cup and t-shirt she was holding.

“Where in the heck have you been?” Her voice is shaking and its intensity is probably causing electrical storms on the other side of the globe.

“Shopping for a new summer dress.” I make my way to my yoga mat, covering my fully clothed self with all the blankets I have. The cat makes its way to Perry’s legs and rubs its head in an innocent fashion against her.

It is when I close my eyes for a fraction of a second that I feel the impact of a soft object against my face.

“What?”

Her voice gets significantly higher, “You know what Carmilla!”

My eyes remain closed. “They are okay. Getting progressively better. They should be out in a couple of days. Their nurse let me stay after the visiting hours because of the weather.”

I can hear her sigh in relief.

“You should visit them. The hospital is warm.”

“You know that I can’t do that Carmilla.”

The cat gets under the blankets and purrs as it balls up next against my side.

“I know” I state simply.

“Well, now that everything is okay I guess I’ll just… sleep.”

Sleep creeps up on me. When I finally wake up the next day I am alone, except for the black creature sleeping soundlessly on Perry and LaFontaine’s bed. I look at the watch on my wrist. I still have the time to get to Rico’s Pizza Place if I leave soon. I take off my coat. After sleeping with it a whole night, my skin is boiling and it feels so good it’s almost painful. I take off my pants, put them in the pocket of my big military backpack that I use as a dirty laundry bag. I put on a pair of gray long johns before putting on black pants, which only have holes on the knees (which is very impressive considering the state of my wardrobe). Once I’m at Rico’s, I decide to even wash my hair and use that conditioner sample Perry gave me a while back. There is this weird, unfamiliar feeling in my gut – an eagerness. This strange desire to live through this day.

Once my hair is dry enough, I make my way to the metro. I play some songs for a few hours and manage to make a little less than ten dollars. Much more than I usually make at that time and for that amount of time. When the sun sets I make my way to the various dumpsters behind grocery stores and bakeries (a small bag of bread, two pineapples, a couple of bags of grapes, a box of day old donuts and half a dozen banana muffins). I go to the public library downtown to bring back the books that I have finished and pick up a few new ones. I’m about to leave when I notice Perry sitting alone at a table, hands held together and staring off into space. We rarely see each other during the day, and so I am surprised to her there. I contemplate joining her. I see her eyebrows bunch up together for a slight second and before I can stop myself, I am making my way towards her.

“Can I sit?”

When she looks at me, a smile is formed as quickly as a light is switched on, “Oh hello. Where is Mircalla? What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to get my fix of eighteenth-century French Libertine novels. And it is waiting for me outside.”

For a second she looks at me confused before shaking her head, “Well that is great. Look what I found today, you are going to be so thrilled,” she searches through her bag before pulling out the ugliest, tiniest piece of clothing, “It’s for Mircalla!”

She holds it up. It is a knitted cat or small dog sweater. With a Christmas type pattern on it. A mess of Reindeer and green and red. I can only imagine the fight the little black creature will put up to be spared of the agony that wearing this tacky piece of clothing would entail.

I try to give her a sincere smile, I probably look like I’m in pain, “That is… absolutely gorgeous. I’m sure she will… be very comfortable in it.” She hands it over to me and I hold it awkwardly. “Thank you.”

We sit in silence.

“Are you okay Perry?” I ask, carefully.

“Mm, sure, of course I am.” She answers, obviously distracted.

I simply look at her, waiting patiently.

“I’m okay Carmilla, don’t worry about me.” She passes a hair through her bright copper curls, “I just miss LaFontaine, I guess.”

I nod, playing with the edge of the cat sweater.

“Did you know that LaFontaine and I met in this library?”

She doesn’t wait for my answer, “They were seventeen and I was eighteen. I used to always come here to do my homework back when I was still in high school. When I graduated, I kept the habit of coming here. It’s a calm place, you know, calm and clean. I noticed them because they were always at the same table, reading the biggest books. Literally textbooks. I don’t even know how it happened exactly. One day we were sitting two tables apart, and a day later we sat together. They read those ancient textbooks and I read my romance novels. I’d give out my resumes and then make my way here to meet them. This library was my constant. When Grandma -” she clears her throat, “and when school ended and when I lost the apartment – I could always come here. And LaFontaine was always here a few hours before the library closed.”

She sighs, “Some things play out so, so wrong, but others,” She looks up briefly at the ceiling, “You wonder how you could have survived if it hadn’t played out so well. If you hadn’t been so lucky.”

I quickly reach for her hand and give it a slight squeeze before bringing my hands to my lap.

“They are doing okay, by every medical definition.”

“They have to be okay. This is our deal,” a small smile appears slowly on her lips, “That is The Deal.”

She takes in a deep breath and lets it out quickly.

“So,” I raise an eyebrow and grin, “You want to help me put this beautiful piece of clothing on the cat?”

She practically squeals.

When we finally end up putting the sweater on the cat, it doesn’t move a whisker. As if it understands that sitting there, in a hideous Christmas sweater, is the right thing to do. For our sakes, anyways.

 

* * *

 

It has only been a few days, but it seems that meeting LaF at the hospital as grown into my routine. Yesterday the small oncology nurse told us that they were most likely going to get discharged today. I hide the grocery cart behind the hospital. Silas is quite a walk from the hospital and I don’t think they can walk that distance in the cold. Perry made sure to lend LaF’s favorite blankets for the occasion and they line the bottom of the cart. I put a few cardboard boxes, an attempt to hide both the small cat and the cart itself. Perry has been in the happiest of moods since I announced the probability of LaFontaine’s discharge yesterday. She even managed to find a few bouquets of flowers from her dumpster diving sessions. Now the basement of Silas looks like the scene of a post-apocalyptic wedding. They even found a birthday cake. Now Isabelle’s 17th birthday cake will welcome LaF home. I don’t know why this whole situation makes me feel a kind of non-specific sadness. Like we are celebrating a situation that shouldn’t be. That is so far from ideal. A lifestyle that is hard and cold. But Perry is happy. And LaFontaine is in good health.

When I arrive at their room, a finished meal is sitting on their table and they are putting their belongings into plastic bags.

“Are you escaping?” I ask.

They turn to me, “I got my discharge papers. I can go home as soon as you come to pick me up to,” they make quotes in the air with their fingers, “Drive me home.”

“Lucky for you I’m a great driver.” I go to sit on their bed, an attempt to rest my legs before leaving once again.

They look at the door before whispering, “Laura gave you a present.”

I look at them, confused, a tingling sensation in my stomach.

They take out a paper bag and when I lean in to look into it, my mouth opens slightly in shock. The bag is filled with medical equipment; gauze, medical tape, alcohol wipes and even a throwable stethoscope that they typically leave in isolation rooms.

“She is the best, right?” They say, excitement in their voice. An excitement I feel myself, so deeply, but cannot process. Happiness, maybe?

“Right.”

I don’t think they’ve ever seen me this speechless. They look at the door again before sitting near the head of the hospital bed. They start taking out juice cups that were hidden there. Not just a few juice cups – more like thirty cups. I look at them with a raised eyebrow.

“What? It’s not like I stole them. They were going to be thrown away,” they say as they start taking out little packs of cookies from under their mattress. I can’t help but laugh.

I help LaFontaine carry their bags, and we stop at the nursing station. The small – Laura – is sitting at the table, writing down in a patient file.

“Hey Laura, we are leaving.”

She smiles before getting up and walking towards us, “Well I wish you the best of luck LaFontaine. I am a hundred and ten percent sure that this is a situation you thankfully will never live again.”

They both laugh as I try to hide my shaky hands in my pockets. My face is neutral and I’m debating if I should say something.

LaF turns to leave and I extend my hand towards the nurse, “Thank you, for everything.”

There’s a mischievous glint in her eyes, and she grins, somewhat triumphantly, “It’s nothing really, just doing my job. Continue doing the good things you do.”

When we are in the elevator, her words bring me back to another time. I can see from the corner of my eye LaF looking at me. I am hoping they won’t say anything. That we won’t talk about the nurse. That we can go back to living a life in which my closest companion is the small black cat.

They snort, “Uh, crushes on nurses?”

I roll my eyes, “Fuck you.”

They laugh.

We make our way to Silas. I think the cat is happy to have a warm place against LaFontaine for the ride back home. It must be a funny sight – some homeless kid pushing a grocery cart with a small black cat and a red haired person like a stroller down the broken streets. Once we arrive at Silas, LaF gets out the cart so fast I’m almost afraid they are going to fall. We make our way down to the basement and I’m struggling to keep up with them. Perry’s face seems to become hers again when she sees them. I’m afraid LaF’s smile is so big that it will remain permanently stuck.

“LaFontaine! I-” And a second later they have their hands around her waist and their lips come together in a feverish, desperate fashion. Perry has her hands in their hair, messing it up until it looks more like their usual hair. I look away. Maybe this isn’t so sad after all. I look at Bonnie, who is on her bed, eating a piece of birthday cake with her fingers. She whistles loudly at the scene.

“Oi ginger pornography, keep it PG-13.” I try to keep my tone serious. They ignore me and I’m happy they do.

There is a thought nagging, at the back of my head. I see the small golden haired nurse, and I am suddenly worried that she is going to make her way back home, alone. Like she has for the past nights. I know tonight is her last night on the surgical ward. It is her unsuspected kindness that makes me put on my leather coat under my oversized army coat and head back outside. I need to pay back that debt one last time. I need to make sure she makes it home safely.

I arrive at the hospital a few minutes before midnight. I see the tall red haired nurse quickly make her way to her car. She doesn’t notice me as she passes a few meters away from me. I see her black car leave the parking lot. A few nurses leave the hospital before I find the one I was looking for. She walks in the same direction she has for the past nights. I follow her, keeping the same distance I have kept for the past nights.

I drink in the sight of her, trying to commit her image to long-term memory. For the simple reason that I want to recognize her if I ever can pay back what I truly owe her. Such kindness shouldn’t go without being recognized and given back.

We are slowly making our way out of the rougher streets. I see her looking at both sides of the street before crossing it and I go to do the same. It is in that fraction of a second that I feel something hit my side and send me flying into a pile of garbage bags. I barely understand what has happened and I look around and see a bike on its side and a man looking at me shocked and lost.

It knocks all the wind inside my lungs. Once I am able to fill them again, I cannot help but to yell out in pain. I am hit not only but twice. Once by the bike, once by the smell of cheap alcohol reeking from the man.

I hear his deep voice say, “Oh fuck that shit, no way I’m going to prison for this,” before he starts running away.

Fucking idiot. With my head against the cold, snow covered street, I wait for the rush of adrenaline to pass in order to assess my possible injuries. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I feel my side is sore, but my lungs and ribs seem to be okay. For once, the many layers of clothing have actually been useful. I then hear someone running towards me.

“Are you okay? I heard –” I recognize her voice and wish I could pretend to be dead. How am I going to explain this? I suddenly wish the drunk could have at least knocked me unconscious.

It is when I try to sit up that I feel a sharp, burning pain from my thigh so intensely I bite my lip, fearing that if I don’t I might scream out and wake the whole neighborhood. I look at the small nurse.

She takes out a wooden ladle from her bag and holds it towards me, in an attempted threatening manner I assume, “Why are you following me – what do you want?”

I can’t help but to laugh slightly at the scene, “Where in hell did you get that?”

“Answer me Carmilla. Why are you –”

The sound of my name on her tongue gives me a rush. A temporary type of courage that I use to try to move my leg but the pain stops me. I clench my teeth and my nails dig into my palms. The nurse is still rambling angrily. I finally look at my thigh, and I can see the fabric of my pants and thermal underwear has been slashed open. I see a piece of metal sticking out from the garbage bag. Great. I rip the fabric slightly further to see the extent of the damage. An angry, bloodied, open wound looks back at me. It is when I see the texture of what appears to be adipose tissue that I realize I will definitely need stitches.

She gasps, “Oh my god. We need to get you to the –” she takes out her phone.

“No, I can’t go to the hospital.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t realize you were badly hurt I thought you – I mean you can imagine how this seems to me –”

“Do you happen to have a piece of fabric you can live without?”

She searches through her bag and gives me a roll of white medical bandage, “You can’t stay like this, and you might bleed out or get infected. It won’t close by itself, it’s too deep.”

I start wrapping the bandage around my leg tightly to bring the edges of the wound closer together, “It’s okay creampuff. I’ll manage. Go home. I’m sorry for going all Edward Cullens on you.”

“Carmilla –”

“Go home.”

She puts her hands on her hips, “I’m not leaving until you call a cab then.”

I shake my head, “I don’t have my wallet on me.” She definitely doesn’t need to know I haven’t had a wallet in a very, very long while.

“Then let me pay for it.”

“I’d rather bleed out in this shitty neighborhood, thank you very much.”

“Let me at least call an ambulance –”

“No it’s okay, let me die in peace.” I try to get up, using my other leg and I feel her arm under my own, helping me up. A reflex probably.

She lets go of me once I’m standing, “Well then I’m taking you to my apartment. To, at least, clean the wound.”

Again I laugh, “Wasn’t I a dangerous stalker a minute ago? You are making terrible choices.”

She just frowns at me.

“That bunched up little face you make when you’re angry is hilarious, buttercup.”

She glares at me, “I wonder how hilarious it’ll be when you either bleed out or get an infection so severe that the wound is seeping rainbow colored pus.”

I the pile of garbage I find a broken broom handle to help me walk, “Looking forward to that. Have a nice night.” I start walking in the opposite direction.

I don’t even have to look behind to know that she is following me.

I turn around, “Goodbye?”

She raises her chin defiantly, “If you can follow me, I can follow you home. It’s only fair.”

Is she real? I try to keep my face blank regardless of the inferno in my leg. I can taste the blood from the bite on my lip.

We make a few steps before she says, “Stop being stupid. I live five minutes from here. You can let me clean your wound and then we can both return to our lives.”

I laugh humorlessly. The blood is already seeping through the bandage, even in the cold.

I sigh. The tiny nurse is right. If I don’t want to go into sepsis I need to clean the wound as quickly as possible.

It is almost as if she can hear my thoughts, “Exactly. To the Shire we go.”

She puts my arm around her shoulders to support me. If I start laughing, I won’t be able to stop – this is the closest I’ve had to human contact in years. Oh, the irony.

We make our way through the same streets we have for the past few days. When the pain starts to get more unbearable I allow myself to breathe her in. She smells so lovely and clean, even after an eight-hour shift. I can’t imagine her on days when she doesn’t work. In its unfamiliarity, it is so soothing. Like a reminder. At the silly contents of my thoughts I realize the accident and the loss of blood are getting to me. I probably would have barely made it to Silas.

When we finally reach her apartment block I am relieved. We get into the elevator. I don’t know if she looks determined or angry. Her eyes are fixated on the numbers announcing the floor level. I bite back a smile, she is, most definitely, badass.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The longest chapter yet, the surprising child of three coffees. Let me know what you think.


	6. Chapter 6

 

I haven’t seen a clean carpet in an apartment corridor – well, probably ever. I had expected to be somewhat uncomfortable being in a stranger’s apartment, but never to this extent. It’s easy to forget what an actual apartment looks like when you have spent about a year in the ruins of an abandoned building. The warm colors on the walls and the furniture feel almost eerie. Like walking into a dollhouse. If it wasn’t for the random nerd objects I would assume this apartment belonged to a middle-aged woman. A single, middle-aged woman with a floral pattern fetish. Some of the decorations I recognize, the obvious ones. Others make me feel like I have I have been living in a parallel dimension. Also, the smell of the place hits me. Although quite a while ago, I can smell that food (very, very, good food) has been cooked in here. I didn’t think I’d ever forget how a house smells after a home cooked meal. I guess sometimes you lose things so slowly and progressively that you don’t even notice. It makes me wonder what other things I have forgotten. I wonder if it is better they remain forgotten.

She puts my arm around her shoulders once again before leading me to a small kitchen. I almost moan once I finally sit down. My hands grip the kitchen table tightly, waiting for my leg to adjust to this position. I try to distract myself. From where I’m sitting I can see the living room, a flat screen television and a huge collection of DVDs. I can see magnets with words on them on her refrigerator, the ones you can make stupid sentences with. Once my eyes are on the small nurse, I can see why she is probably a good oncological nurse. With the look she’s giving me I almost feel like being in pain isn’t something I mind so much. She stands next to me, her hands held up to her chest as if getting ready to do something in the most rapid manner she can manage.

“Okay so first things first, do you want me to get you Tylenol or Advil?”

I shake my head and start searching through my bag, “No it’s okay. Could you please boil some water?”

“What? Really? I know tea is all kinds of good for the body but are you sure you –”

 “Please,” the word feels weird in my mouth, “Just boil some water. And if you have any sort of alcohol or hydrogen peroxide that would be great.”

She awkwardly puts a pot of water to boil. She then almost runs out the kitchen to go in a room down the corridor. I find what I’m looking for. I put a Ziploc bag with some of my most precious belongings on the table. I get up and dump the contents in the water. When she comes back she drops a first aid kit bag.

It is actually very impressive, “Only a nurse could have a first aid kit this intense.”

She rolls her eyes, “Shut it and take off your pants.”

When I look at her horror is clearly etched upon my face. I barely am able to choke out a “What?”

“Common, it’s not like I haven’t seen this like a bajillion times.” She scoffs. Her confident attitude breaks for a second, “Unless… you aren’t wearing –“

I get up in one smooth motion, “Fucking hell,” I start taking off my pants, “Whatever.”

It’s once I have put my folded pants on the backrest of the chair with both of my coats that I realize what underwear I’m wearing today. I am then thankful for the slight blood loss – I am able to keep my stoic expression intact without blood rushing to my cheeks.

“Well,” she starts laughing, innocent and almost carefree, “I sure didn’t take you for a boat type of girl.”

I look down at my boxer briefs, covered in little boats. Clearly from the young boy section. Of course this is not coherent with my typical clothing but they usually come in little packs and end up being cheaper. Also, I’ve lost a considerable amount of weight. Sadly this is what fits the best. The last thing I want is to be annoyed by my own underwear or have to keep them up with a lace as well.

“Laugh all you want – we both know you’re probably wearing peach-colored granny panties.”

She snorts. I suddenly feel very lightheaded. I realize then that I haven’t eaten since the piece of bread I ate for lunch. That mixed with the lack of sleep, hydration, and the adrenaline rush of this whole situation – I am very close to having a vagal shock. I go to sit on the chair.

The small nurse doesn’t miss a beat, “No Carmilla, sit on the floor. Put your legs up against the wall.”

I don’t really understand her command, but I feel her hands under my thighs. The warmth of her hands distracts me from the feeling of blood dripping down my thigh. When my feet are raised I start feel significantly better. The fogginess in my brain subsides and my ears stop ringing. She gets up and I wonder if she is going to call an ambulance. Instead, she comes back with a yellow pillow and puts it under my head.

“Thank you,” I say rather quietly.

“No problem Captain,” she chirps as she fakes a military salute, “I was raised to be a good man in a storm.”

I look at her funny, because she is very much, not a man. My eyes drift slightly to her exposed legs.

“You don’t watch – oh never mind.”

I am infinitely thankful that she is not making this an overly serious, grave situation. The medical bandage on my thigh is so saturated with partly dried blood I am dreading the moment I will have to rip it off.

“Do you have a hard time seeing blood?”

I chuckle, “Trust me when I say that I don’t.”

“Are you sure? It would be totally normal, you know, it’s a pretty big wound you have there –”

I hate the lie that comes out of my mouth, “I just ate supper really early. I assume that this is why I’m just a little – weak at the moment.”

Her voice is low and soothing, “Just let me clean the wound,” she mirrors my words, “Trust me when I say that I have had a lot of practice these past days.”

I can’t argue with her logic, “Alright.”

She sets her equipment on the floor next to me and puts on clean medical gloves. She wets thoroughly the bandage with a sterile solution before taking it off. When I see it again, I try to pretend that it isn’t my wound. That it isn’t my leg. To prepare myself, to do what I will soon have to do.

I must have made a sound because she says, “It’s not hardcore straight edge, die hard, or whatever you punk rock kids say, to suffer. Especially when you could take innocent pain medication that is very much available.”

“Kid?” I scoff, “Please, I am probably 311 years older than you.”

She drops another dirty gauze in the small garbage next to her, “Gosh, that’s specific.”

Does she ever not have a reply to something? I look at the clock above her sink once more. The wound is as free of blood as it can be in the given circumstances. I see her pick up the absorbent gauze and I cut her off.

“Could you please get the –“

Her face is twisted in confusion, “You want the tea now?” She gets up to the pot and when she looks into it, she doesn’t even need to speak. I can feel her internal conflict from my weird position on her floor.

I hope she will just go with it and not question, “Just dump the hot water and bring it to me.”

“What in the name of Ellis Grey is this?”

I open my mouth to answer, but she cuts me off, “Needle holders. And a sewing needle. What –”

“It’s an Olsen-Hegar needle holder.”

She looks at me, half way between horrified and overwhelmed.

I shrug, “Same difference, I guess.”

“Who are you?”

I can’t help but grin, “I am a creature of the night, we already established that.”

She takes her hair down only to trap it in a messy bun again, “Where did you even get those? They are like, intense expensive.”

I look away, wondering if I should tell her the truth, “Would you believe me if I told you it was a gift? That I’ve had them, for a very long time?”

“Actually, probably not.”

A lie it is, “Well then, I stole them from a scrub nurse to get her in trouble.”

She turns her head to hide a smile. When she finally looks at me, she has a pained expression. Like she is trying to ask a question, but the answer is too sad to want to understand.

“Carmilla –”

“Do you have a hard time seeing blood?”

“No, I don’t but why,” she points to my leg before bringing her hand to her lips, “why would you want to do this? Why can’t you just go to the hospital? It’s not like we are in the U.S. and it’s going to cost you a life’s worth of Lucky Charms to get it fixed.”

“It’s easier this way. I can’t go to the hospital-“

“Why? You have no trouble going in for another person. Which means it’s not like you’re legally banned from the hospital.”

I groan in frustration, “Cutie, have you ever thought of going into journalism?”

Her face lights up, “Oh my gosh, how did you guess? And yes I actually did during High school. I was part of the Newspaper committee and – “

“Splendid. So great to hear that, hope you continue progressing in that field.” I get up excruciatingly slowly. Regardless of my efforts, the room is still spinning. I make my way to the sink and start to wash my hands. I have to distract her. “What made you go into nursing instead?”

I turn my head towards her and see her look up before answering, “I guess, well, I spent some time in the hospital and realized that nursing was like an elite form of journalism.”

My eyebrow raise at her answer, impressed. I was wrong to expect the cliché answer.

“I think that also, I need to be constantly busy, you know, occupied. Being a nurse, I never really have to worry about getting bored. If I am bored, it’s because I’m either not doing things right or need to switch units.”

“So do it with your mouth open, and take your foot off of the brake, for Christ's sake.” The words come out off tune and barely a whisper.

She just looked at me, the type of expression I assume she would give someone who was trying to tickle her in a place she definitely wasn’t ticklish. “What? Which brake?”

I bite my lip, “It’s to calculate the time I use to wash my hands. I sing Dilaudid by The Mountain Goats two times.”

“The Mountain Goats?”

I shrug, “I was going through a bad break up when I learned that trick.”

I gather the equipment needed and go back to my position on the floor, folding the pillow in half. With this position, the blood will be less likely pool to my extremities and give me a better chance at doing this right. A hiss comes out of me once I pour the hydrogen peroxide on the wound.

I have the needle holder in my hand, the needle is about to bite into the skin, “If you could have a super power which one would it be?”

“Look at you, taking an interest in journalism.”

“Just answer the question. It’s most obviously not for my personal wealth of knowledge, and more to try to distract myself so I don’t lose consciousness.”

I can almost hear her attitude as she comes and sits next to the pillow, her legs crossed, “I think I’d like immortality.”

“The only thing –” I clench my teeth so tightly I fear I might end up with pieces of teeth in my stomach. The needle goes in and out my skin two times before I finish the first stitch. I let out a breath less shaky than I expected, “I think the only thing more painful and sad than the smallness and insignificance of a human life, is a never-ending existence. I think I would go insane.”

She shakes her head as if offended, brows coming together to form a tight frown, “No come on, you have to think bigger than that. You get to see how everything turns out.”

I manage to do another stitch. This one looks better than the first one. The edges of the wound are perfectly approximated. A sense of pride takes up the place in me that it had long abandoned. I shrug at her answer, “And live to see the end of humanity? To live to be the last human on earth?”

She hits my shoulder, in a gentle manner, “The end would be as important as all the discoveries and advancement and the awesomeness that happened! It’s like saying we shouldn’t study the Roman Empire – the fall of the Roman Empire is as important as its rise to power. Or else there wouldn’t be so many books about it. Think about it Carmilla – you would have all the answers to all the questions ever asked.”

It is probably not okay, that I haven’t felt this normal in ages. I am currently sewing my own leg up, in the apartment of a stranger. In boat covered boxer briefs. I don’t understand why it feels so normal. Maybe it’s the conversation or normalcy in the setting or the small golden haired girl next to me wearing a dress with polka dots. I am half way done stitching the wound closed. It is bleeding significantly less. It’s hard not to focus on the contrast of the blood against my pale skin. I’m trying hard to concentrate on the pain so that I don’t faint. I am concentrating so hard I don’t hear the heavy steps making their way into the kitchen.

From the floor looking up, the girl definitely looks like a sixteen story building. A sixteen story building with the angriest face and covered in bird patterned pajamas. It takes the strength of all my existence not to laugh at the sight.

“Uh… What kind of barbaric, alleyway surgery is this?” I wonder if she ever sounds calm. Like she is just a girl and not the leader of an army of ten thousand Vikings.

I guess the tiny almost-journalist is so used to the tone that she doesn’t hear it, “Oh hi Danny! Did we wake you? This is my very good friend Carmilla. She is the one that has… walked me home the past nights.”

She makes a sound in my general direction that I assume is a form of greeting. I think I’d rather have silence than a half-assed attempt such as this one. The small one, from the height of the common mortals, seems to have no trouble holding the extra tall one’s gaze. I almost want to congratulate her on it.

My expression is back to stoic, “Well good evening to you too Gandalf.”

Both pairs of eyes turn to me and it kind of feels as comfortable as the moment yogurt sits in your mouth before you swallow it.

I still have the tools in my hands when I put them up as an act of peace, “I was just going along with the tiny –” I feel like every atom surrounding me stands still for a moment, “Laura’s nerdy Lord of the Ring reference from before.”

Bird pajamas shakes her head, “Whatever. Laura… I thought we had agreed to not have visitors over after work on weekdays –”

“No, we actually never agreed on that. I know that because it is something, with one hundred percent of sureness, would have never agreed to. What we agreed was to advise the other when we have visitors over. I think that this situation can make an exception to the rule considering…” she points dramatically at my almost finished work with her small hands. The rush of adrenaline caused by the arrival of Xena the Warrior Princess is helping me finish my job.

She runs a hand through her red hair, clearly attempting to find something else to convince the small nurse to ditch me and spend quality “roommate” time with her. “First you say you don’t like surgery but you come back to the apartment with a trauma case. What the hell? I don’t know what has gotten into you.”

“I prefer to be called Ms. Trauma Case, thank you very much.”

“Oh shut it bloody Mary.”

Well that one, is without the shadow of a doubt, a surgical nurse through and through. She doesn’t even bat an eyelid at my open wound. But her comment doesn’t stop the tiny human from standing up defiantly, hands on her hips. It almost looks comical, but the oh so jolly giant takes a step back. I wonder if Danny is ashamed that this cute girl in a dress is technically the one that wears the pants in the friendship. She looks like the type of girl that gets spiritually offended if someone even attempts to top her.

“Look, I’m sorry we woke you up but you have no business insulting my guest – my currently injured and bleeding the equivalent Niagra Falls guest.” From my protected position behind her I smirk at Danny. I could never have imagined this scene, getting defended by an oncological nurse. Considerably shorter and more approachable looking.

The tall one glares at me like I not only stole her puppy, but intend to eat it, “We’ll talk about this tomorrow, Laura.”

“Mm well tomorrow I’m really busy, but I’ll try to make time later this-”

And with this half-finished sentence, Xena in the bird pajamas has stormed off and my last stitch is done. When I put down the needle holder, my hands are shaking almost violently. Like all the pain that I tried to ignore has been trapped in the skin. If I fell asleep right now I think I wouldn’t wake up until spring. See a lone drop of blood making its way to Laura’s floor and once again I use my hand to wipe it. It will probably take a week of vigorous hand washing before I stop having blood under my nails. It’s the smell of the blood that gets me the most and memories flash in my mind as powerful and quick as thunder.

Her eyebrows are almost reaching her hairline, “Wow… Carmilla those are really nicely done. Like really, plastic surgery type good. Where in heck did you learn how to do that?”

“My mother was a doctor.”

Her tone is soft, “Was?”

I correct myself, “Is. She is a doctor.”

I sit up and lean against her wall, now eye level with her. She gathers her equipment again and gets an antimicrobial cream. The silence is comfortable as she cleans the wound once again. The pain from before has overwhelmed my nerves so extensively, that now in the absence of that acute pain, my body seems to hum in a dull fashion.

“You are made from a tough material.” She finally says.

I shrug, “As are you.”

She just looks at me, with those soft and kind eyes. It’s so hard to remain expressionless and cold when a stranger looks at you seemingly filled with only good intentions. I regret thinking of her as naive and provincial. A certain rare kind of courage is needed to be so open and kind. This is one of the things I’ve learned since living in Silas – it is easy to yell and be intimidating. It might be harder to do something good just because you can, even if it puts you in a vulnerable position. I’d be lying if I said that hope started to build up in me then. Because I know started to build up the moment she offered me coffee. It’s easy to take that hope as a good thing when you are living typically. Hope is something we try to avoid at all costs. It will settle in your mind passively; that you’ll get a job, that you will sleep in a bed, that you won’t have to think twice about what you’re going to eat, that a soft girl will fall in love with you, that you’ll feel like you have value. But the daydreams are insidious and cruel because you fall asleep and wake up that next morning with the sudden realization that you have nothing. Each day you start with nothing. Let alone the sentimental side, you literally start each day with close to nothing – no extra money, no complete certainty of shelter, no food. No way to plan ahead. Hope doesn’t make you feel better, it makes you feel worse about what you need to do. I won’t pretend that I haven’t waited on my small yoga mat, for good things to happen because I couldn’t find the strength to get up. On those days you starve and it makes the next one even harder.

She claps her hands, and I almost feel bad for her angry roommate, “That whole blank face thing you have going on is my cue feed you now.”

She gets up and turns towards the pantry so quickly it almost looks like she’s dancing and her dress is having a hard time to keep up with her. At the sudden offer of food, I can feel my abdomen digging inwards, skin tugging at my ribs. My stomach cries a pitiful whine.

I take my tools and get up, I put them back into my bag, “No it’s okay. I should get back home now. You’ve done more than enough.”

I can almost feel my every cell collectively punching me.

Her laugh is high and sarcastic, “Very funny. I can cope with you turning my kitchen into an operating room. I can even deal with the fact that you sing The Mountain Goats even if you’re not going through a breakup and a tub of cookie dough ice cream. But no way in actual hell that I’m letting you leave like this. Without eating and drinking and answering my questions.”

I sit back down on the chair, almost nonchalant, “I figured you weren’t doing all of this from the goodness of your little bleeding nursing heart.”

She turns around and points a finger at me, “I am doing this purely for … myself actually. I suffer from insomnia and there is nothing that helps me sleep better than a huge rush before bedtime. Sugary or salty?”

“Both. So I see how it is, creampuff. You are shamelessly using me.”

She turns from the refrigerator to look at me, “You were shamelessly following me. Why?”

“You don’t even pretend to waste time.”

“Not a big fan of time-wasting or not getting answers to my questions. Peanut butter and jelly sandwich?” She bites her lip, but I can see the corners of her lips turn slightly upwards.

“That would be perfect. I didn’t follow you… I just live near here.”

She puts two slices of white bread in the toaster, my mouth can’t help but water, “You should probably take theater classes because your acting sucks. I can’t even give you a passable grade.”

“Why would you even bring me here if you even remotely thought I was stalking you? Me, allegedly lying, only makes you look bad, cutie.” I hold my head up with my fist as I watch her move around the kitchen.

She holds up two fingers in my direction, “There are two things I am exceptionally good at; the first one is eating twice my weight in sugary treats without feeling anything but in tip top health, the second one is my killer good instincts.”

I turn my head slightly to the side, hoping she will elaborate further.

“I’m really good at telling if someone is genuine, or kind or hypocritical. I kind of have to be to be good at what I do. And,” she pulls the toasts out and starts making the sandwich, “I know at an about ninety-eight percent certainty that you don’t want to make a leather coat with my skin.”

I make a face, “As if I’d ever wear something pastel colored.”

“Gosh, that’s just mean. It’s very hard to get even a slight tan in winter.” She looks me up and down, I try to pretend I don’t feel my nerves being ignited back to life with an electrical current. “As if you’re any better than me. If anything you are much worse. On which street you do live?”

I realize I can’t manipulate her into another subject, “I live on Silas.”

“Really? I didn’t know they had apartments on Silas. Last time I went –“

I start picking at my nails, “It’s a fairly new block.”

“Do you like orange juice? And definitely not anywhere near here. So, why were you following me?” She puts the plate in front of me before turning to get something to drink.

“Orange juice is fine.”

She gives me a glass of juice and sits in front of me, her arms crossed. She makes a hand gesture as if to say continue.

“I didn’t want you to walk back home alone.”

Her nose crinkles as she makes a face, “What? How could you even know that?”

I mock her earlier gesture by putting up my middle finger. It probably doesn’t look threatening because of the grin that’s breaking through, “There is one thing I’m really good at. And it’s listening. I heard you when I was with LaFontaine, arguing with the magnificent specimen that is your roommate.”

“Oh.” She plays with the hem of her dress, “I don’t know if it’s really considerate or creepy.”

I shrug, “Probably the second option.”

She shakes her head, “Girl the hell up Carmilla and take responsibility for what you did. To be honest, I probably would have done the same thing.”

“Really?”

She puts her tiny fist up, “Heck yes. I’m all about girls protecting girls.”

I try to not hope that she is all about girls loving girls as well. It doesn’t mean anything. This night will end and it will not matter if this short, surprising girl is into girls or not.  Once I start eating, the whole scene blacks out. My only thoughts are on the movements needed to eat. It is only when an empty plate and glass are staring back at me that I feel that familiar pain in my stomach. That cramping pain that happens when I eat too fast or too much at once.

Her mouth is slightly opened in awe, “And here I was, thinking I was the crowned champion in the eating fast category.”

I take the plate and glass and get up awkwardly, not knowing where to put it but not wanting to leave it just on the table, “Thank you for the meal. It was lovely.” I decide to put it in the sink.

She laughs, “It was toast.”

“You truly have extraordinary culinary skills.”

“Thank you so much. You should see my take on chicken noodle soup.”

I bring a fist to my heart dramatically, and say sarcastically, “I think I’d like that, very much.” I pick up my pants, “This is officially the end of this PG-13 rated show.”

Once my pants are on, the silence for the first time feels awkward.

“So…” I start.

“You should sleep over.” She blurts out.

I frown, confused, “What?”

“Just to piss Danny off. Do it for me. You technically owe me, by the way.”

She can’t be serious, “Are you even serious?”

She just shrugs, “It would be worth it. Just to see her angry morning face.”

“You – we don’t even know each other.”

“I’ve literally seen the inside of your body. I’d say we’re pretty close.”

With her smile so big and innocent. It is hard to say no.  But I know I have to. It’s hard to explain why exactly, I have to refuse an open door. I don’t know if it’s out of fear or need of transparency for survival that I feel I need to do so. I don’t know if she is truly asking me to sleep over to get revenge on her roommate or because she is lonely.

I shake my head, “I need to go home.”

She seems to have a moment of sudden understanding. I feel my hands getting clammy.

“Oh… are you dating someone or?”

I almost let out a breath in relief, “No I’m not dating anyone.” It’s so hard to find something normal to say, “I have a cat though. And a few roommates.”

Her face lights up, “Really? I could have never imagined you as a cat person.”

“I have no idea why people keep saying that. Do I look like I injured animals for fun as a youth?”

She shrugs, “I don’t know what it is exactly. Maybe it’s the hair?”

I pat down my messy curls almost self-consciously. She laughs.

“Well, then, Carmilla, since you won’t help me out and you still have a debt to pay, come back here Friday night. It’s my day off. I’ll change your dressing, make sure you’re healing well and be able to sleep soundly without war flashbacks of this incident.”

I think about my Friday night routine. I usually go dumpster diving when the sun sets, and then go to my spot to play guitar and try to get some change. There is considerably less food to find on the weekends. If I don’t get the change I might not be able to wash my clothes, let alone have some spare change in case I need food. I’m trying to save up for a gym membership. This is what Perry does – it allows her to shower at a very cheap rate. On the weekends, I have an infinity of spare time. I think about the small cat. I know I can’t leave it at Silas. She only stayed because Perry and LaF were there tonight.  

I try to think of a plausible reason why I can’t make it, “I have to take my cat to the vet.”

She claps her hands excitedly, “Great! You can bring her here after. So I’ll get to make sure you won’t go into septic shock and meet a cat. This is great.”

I put on my leather coat and run a hand through my hair. This is something. But with this twisting in my gut, I’m not sure if it is something dangerous or great.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you so much to all those who read until this point, but an even bigger thanks to all those who demonstrated their liking of this story. It's hard to express how much I appreciate it. Little miss french girl (myself) went through the entirety of this fic and corrected it once again. But I do sincerely apologise for the mistakes that seem to slip through my sleep deprived brain. Let me know what you think, what you want to happen or even what you wish you could eat right now.


	7. Chapter 7

With every step, the skin tugs violently in protest. The dressing on the wound is of considerable help. But the feeling persists until I can see Silas. I feel as though one wrong step could cause the skin on my leg to split, like an old piece of rubber under too much tension. Each step is a reminder that this wound is far from healed. I hope that by tomorrow the dried blood will at least glue the wound edges together. The type of silence the pain causes in the mind feels almost painful.

I am trembling by the time I lay on my mat. I cannot figure out if it is the cold or the pain that causes it. The extent of concentration on my movements blocks out any other information. I am now longing for not only the warmth of the tiny hobbit’s apartment but for the bottle of ibuprofen she held in her hand. I guess she was right on that call.

“You’re –” I hear Perry gasp slightly, “Oh my, what happened? Your face is a deadly shade of pale and you have blood on your –”

I try to roll my eyes in annoyance, but I cannot tell if it seems sincere or not, “I got hit by a bike.”

She gets up quickly to come and sit next to me. LaF is moving slightly, woken up by Perry’s typical piercing worried voice. I take off my pants and feel immediate relief once the cool air finds my heated skin. The pain is slowly fading to a more tolerable frequency.

“Oh, Carmilla…” She says, sadly. She knows what a serious wound means. She knows what it will mean for the next couple of days. Thankfully, she doesn’t question the beautifully made dressing on the wound, assuming probably that I have made it myself. As I have often in the past. I am happy she doesn’t because I know I need to stop thinking about the nurse. I know that as soon as I vocalize what happened it will make it real. And not simply, just another daydream.

LaF gets up and brings me a piece of cake, which they appear to have kept for me. The simple, traditional type of icing seems out of place in their hands. Almost comically so.

They give me the small chipped plate with a smile tugging on the corners of their mouth, “Stop trying to out sick me to impress my girl.”

Perry glares at them, “She is hurt – be kind to Carmilla.” It’s probably a full moon – I’ve never been this (strangely) defended by girls who look less threatening than me.

They lean down to put a hand on my shoulder, an exaggerated pout on their lips, “I am sorry, honey bear. Do you want a group hug?”

I kick their leg with my good one and snort. Cuddly and cute are definitely not words that describe the alliance LaF and I have. They smile regardless of my actions. Things are back to normal.

 

* * *

 

People really love acoustic versions of pop songs. At least, that’s what I gather from the change in my pocket. Either that or they like the clash between the song and my look. Not for the first time, I am infinitely thankful for the semi-rebellious phase I had when I was a teenager and decided I wanted to play guitar. I wonder what Perry and LaF do to get money. After all that has happened, I know that you can’t survive on dumpster diving and bags near donation bins. Not very long, anyways. It’s not something we talk about, money that is. I think it’s better not to know what the others are carrying and where. There are still some days where you feel an uncontrollable desperation. Like you are up to your neck in cold waters, a breath away from death, willing to do anything to get out.

My backpack is heavy from what I got from my “shopping”. I managed to find a few warm sweaters and socks. From the charity store that is in the basement of a church near Silas, I bought a bag of cat food at a very affordable price. I can only hope Mircalla will accept it and not beg for her typical diet of canned fish and veggie meat. A few days have passed since the accident. It is hard to decide whether I should see the nurse on Friday or not. I left her apartment knowing I wouldn’t. But some thoughts have been creeping up on me. Insignificant, innocent and silly thoughts. Like what I would wear if I did go Friday; all ridiculous animal print LaFontaine or 80s punk to bother her roommate, the last Viking on earth. If I should bring coffee or cookies. I don’t usually spend money on such useless things. So, once the thoughts cut through my mind I am left with an odd feeling. It makes me want to ignore my rational decision. This hasn’t happened in so long.

By the time I’m walking on Silas’ street, I know I will go to the tiny nurse’s apartment. Only because I don’t know when I’ll get an opportunity to truly warm up. This is a rare offer. It might be better to be comfortable for a few hours, even if it makes it harder afterward to make my way back to Silas burning cold concrete floors. The guitar case hits my side with every step. The added weight on my back seems to directly translate into an aching pain on my thigh. I can see Silas, when from the corner of my eye, I notice a crimson scarf. I shake my head and open my eyes wider, trying to outsmart the trick the cold or fatigue has obviously played on me. My photographic memory once again does not fail me. The golden-haired girl with the scarf is her without a doubt. Panic fills me until I can feel it’s flush in my cheeks and ears, heart attempting to hammer itself out. I see her looking at buildings, searching. I wonder if she is searching for me. All logic says that this young Lois Lane is searching for that “new apartment block”. There is nothing of value for a typical girl on this street.

I make my way into Silas without her noticing. I try to make my way down the stairs, but my lungs stand useless in my chest. Paralyzed, and I cannot help but to sit down on one of the steps, unable to move further. To try to remember that my lungs will continue to take air in regardless of what happens. My vision narrows down until all I can see is the end of a dark tunnel. My palms are sweaty, and wiping them on my pants doesn’t seem to help. This feeling of impending doom is currently present in every single corner of my being. I don’t understand, the vision of my mother’s face coming back to me. A connection is made between the tiny nurse knowing where I am currently living and my mother finding me.

But the link doesn’t make sense. And yet I can almost hear my mother say, _“You do not have what it takes to make it in a world that gives you nothing, Carmilla. Tired? You are tired? You do not even understand the basic concepts of fatigue. You have the arrogance to speak about terms you do not comprehend? I am going to explain to you, in the simplest terms I can manage, what is going to happen next. You are –”_

A hand on my back, light and uncertain, “Carmilla? Are you alright?”

The concern written on LaF’s face is bold and obvious as if written with a thick permanent marker. The bright intensity of their blue eyes helps me anchor myself back the present moment.

“My leg hurts,” my voice sounds foreign and cold to my own ears. Not a lie, but maybe not the truth either. I know my breathing is still irregular. I try to pace it, counting slowly and with purpose in my mind.

They sit next to me, “What happened?”

I’ve always been able to hold myself together better with someone else watching. After their question, I can feel the deep sense of panic being lifted. I shake my head and look away, embarrassed.

“It doesn’t matter now.”

I feel their added weight on the step, “That’s subjective. Did you…” they clear their throat, “See an old friend?”

I understand their meaning, someone I knew in my other life, “No.”

“You know, you don’t have to keep the whole broody and mysterious act in front of me, this - ” they point a finger in my direction before pointing it back to their chest, “never going to happen.”

“Thank god.”

Maybe LaF and I are friends. A strange type of friendship, bound by extraordinary circumstances and survival.

“The day I got hit by a bike, I was following your nurse.”

“Who?”

“The one that wore the stupid floral uniforms.”

Their mouth opens, “Laura? What? Why?”

I explain the whole story to them. From following her to her fixing me up in her apartment to her eighteen feet tall roommate. It seems more effective in calming me than counting my respiration did. In a matter of minutes, the walls of the basement have felt the echo of my voice more than in the past weeks, combined.

“Why in hell wouldn’t you go to see her Friday?” The look they are giving me is making me feel even more embarrassed if that is even possible.

I sigh, “What good would it do? I can clean my own cut. You know I can and I have before, a great multitude of times.”

They rest their chin the palm of their hand, “You know, I don’t understand you. Don’t look at me like that – I hear what you’re saying. Most of the time I can even hear what you are probably thinking. But I never can understand the decisions you end up making. Every day, I see you biting your lip to stop yourself from smiling. Like when Mircalla does something stupid or cute. When Perry fixes up your clothes using her old patterned clothes and it ends up looking like she’s trying to pull a Frankenstein. But you know, no amount of blood in your stomach from the bites in your cheeks can change this situation -”

I open my mouth to cut them off, “No Carmilla. It’s true. It’s not by suffering and making things more difficult than they already are, that things will get better. It’s not by being unhappy that you’ll make money or get a car to sleep in or whatever. It’s always been about luck or coincidences or any concept that’s been out of our hands from the moment we were born.”

From the pressure I feel in my chest, I know that what they are saying is true. Or at the very least, sincere, “I don’t understand how this has to do with going to the nurse’s house on Friday.”

They roll their eyes, “If you would stop lying to yourself, we’d all be better off. You’re scared that you’ll go there and that, yes, she’d take care of your leg, but that it might be even a tiny bit fun.”

“Yes, because the debridement of dead tissues is one of my favorite recreational activities.” They give me this look that almost makes me want to take a break from the sarcasm.

“Without Perry, I wouldn’t have made it this far,” they state simply. “I only noticed her in the library because she used to start crying at random times. A silent kind crying, never lasting more than a minute before she would mumble to herself and shake herself out of it. Here I was, a little less than two years after I left everything behind, only starting to get my basic needs met. She was the first person that I didn’t have the heart to try to hate. So, I sat with her. Every day for weeks. I memorized her schedule. I was waiting for her to tell me to fuck off or whatever. But she never did. She complimented me on my posture. That was it. That was enough to start something. When I found out she lost her home, I showed her everything I wish someone else had done for me. And everything was better. Sometimes it wasn’t great, sometimes it was horrible, sometimes I couldn’t close my eyes long enough to sleep. But it was better.”

I rub the back of my neck, “I cannot imagine this situation getting better.”

They nod sympathetically, “Take what people offer, Carmilla.”

The silence fills the room then. My hands are playing with the holes at the bottom of my sweater, “I don’t want her to know. I’m so …” The image of my mother’s clenched jaw comes back to me, and I clear my throat. Not wanting to let the words out.

“You’re not the same person you were when we met. It has gotten better. I can still remember that night as if it’s playing on a screen in front of me. We came in and I saw you, lying there on the floor, and I thought you wouldn’t make it another week, never mind another month. Seriously if Laura thinks you look like a vampire now … well, back then you truly fitted the characteristics associated to the undead. But then you saw us, and your eyes were drawn to our wounds instantly. It was when you had the needle in your hands and that intense look you get that I realized you were more than just a scrawny street kid –“

I give them a push, “You looked as good as I did, Crocs face.”

“Shut up fangs. But it’s true – you get this intense look on your face. And you can see that you used to be someone. That you are someone. I can easily tell, when I meet another one of us, if they became homeless before learning they had a purpose. You can just see it in their eyes. They have nothing to lose, this emptiness. On the other hand, those with a purpose, you can tell that they’ve lost everything.”

I shrug, trying not to think about LaF’s assumptions, “In the end it matters not. Either way we survive or we don’t.”

They just look at me, and I cannot tell if they agree or not.

“I don’t think I can cope with disappointment,” I say this, mostly for myself.

They shrug, “Sometimes you don’t have to.”

I turn to look at them, serious and threatening, “Don’t tell any of this to Perry.”

 

* * *

 

I make my way into Silas. I am aiming for a nap before going to my usual activities on my typical Friday evening and night. When I make my way down the stairs, Perry is standing motionless in the middle of the room. With the hugest smile. Almost akin to that of a serial killer zeroing on a kill.  I almost fear that she is going to say that she wants to eat my liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti. She even has a plate of baked goods. Not a good sign. Perry being this ecstatic usually means she has a plan. She is kind of giving me the same look she gave Mircalla before putting on the ridiculous sweater. I silently curse the small cat, making its way to Perry, the sweater still on its back. Initially, I assume I kept it on the cat to please Perry. But now this silly creature whines at me to put it on. Silly, shameless creature.

She quickly makes her way up to me and starts dusting off snow from my shoulders, “Oh, hello! I’ve been waiting for you Carmilla. Here, take some muffins. I thought maybe –”

I turn around and make my way to the small box where we keep our food, and unpack my findings, “No. Could you remind your big mouthed human that I will surgically close their mouth shut if they don’t learn to do so on their own.”

She looks around the room, guilty, “LaFontaine only briefly mentioned –”

I look at her, an eyebrow raised and arms crossed.

She speaks so quickly the words almost melt into one, “That you, perhaps, have a date tonight. With a nurse,” she fixes her hair nervously, “in their sleep. They mentioned it in their sleep.”

“Of course Meryl Streep, in their sleep.”

She nods rapidly, guilt still painted on her features. I take off my coat and put on my makeshift hook to dry. I put my guitar case next to my mat, in its usual place, right next to a pile of books. Some old, some new, and most of them borrowed. I’m about to pick up the one I’m currently reading when Perry grabs me by the arm. She pulls me towards the tall wardrobe where they both keep their belongings.

She opens the doors, and turns to me, hands forming fists that she brings to her chest, “You don’t know how long I’ve waited for this moment. It is like a dream come true.”

Everything about my facial expression and posture is screaming “what the fuck”.

She examines a few pieces of clothing, concentrated, before putting a couple of them on the bed. She then brings her hands together, “So you have the choice, you can go for the clean and responsible look or –”

“Fucking hell Perry, leave me alone. It is not a date. If it is anything, it is a medical appointment.” I can see that she’s hurt by my swearing and tone. She slowly picks up the clothing she put down moments earlier, clean and formal looking button ups.

Her back is facing me, “I was only trying to help.”

A tiny sliver of regret finds me, “I’m sorry Perry. I ...” I almost have to cough to get the words out, “need your help.”

She smiles so big, I am reminded of how hard it must be for LaF to ever say no to her. I guess I have a hard time saying no as well.  Occasionally.

“Okay so try this on it might be a little loose but –“

A few outfits later, I think even Mircalla doesn’t recognize me. I let Perry chose a white button up shirt and a pink bowtie that undeniably belongs to LaF. My curls are neater than they have been in years. I look young, useless and very gay. Mostly normal, I assume.

She makes me stand in front of the broken mirror, “I look like I sell bibles.”

She looks at me, perplexed, “No Carmilla, you look lovely. Medical appointment or not she is -”

Bonnie walks in at this moment and looks at me with her mouth opened, “What the nuts! Pink!”

I look at Perry, “Case in point.”

Perry just waves dismissively at Bonnie. Bonnie’s bubble gum swells and its pop echoes defiantly in the room. Perry jumps at the sound and looks at her filled with dislike. I don’t mind her. She is rarely present and is fairly clean. Better than one of the guys that used to crash with us – with dreads so disgusting and unkempt that they melted into one. I wonder where he is now. Maybe his repulsive hair got permanently attached to a park bench.

I take a muffin from Perry’s plate and bite into it. I almost moan on the spot. I throw her a devil’s horns sign to show my appreciation.

“Where did you get these?” She often comes to Silas with baked goods. Freshly, homemade baked goods. Which let me tell you, after years of stale store ones, is almost a holy experience.

“It’s from a lady I work for. She has no children and likes baking. When I finish early, sometimes we bake together.”

I get back to my mat with another muffin and crack open my book. I can feel that Perry I still looking at me.

“What is it now?”

She smiles, “What are you reading?”

“Fifty Shades of Grey.”

She looks at the cover of the big textbook, “Oh shush. I know what your outfit is missing! Suspenders. I’m sure LaFontaine has some somewhere –”

The look I give her stops the words instantly.

“It would really add to –“

I close the book shut in an exaggerated fashion. I move my hands to my neck to try to take off this ludicrous bow.

My hands stop moving, “Well, Don’t you look handsome.” In response to LaFontaines sudden arrival and mockery, I hold my middle finger up to them.

I get up, “Don’t you guys have lives? There is an overwhelming amount of abnormal hair color in this room. I’m leaving before I overdose and start convulsing.”

I have my coat on, my backpack and Mircalla on my shoulder when I make my way up the stairs.

“Say hello to your one true love from me!”

Fuck you LaF.

 

* * *

 

I have two options. Either I press the button for apartment 307 or I throw myself onto oncoming traffic. Both sound as equally pleasing right now. I decide to press the damned button, because well, hell, it's Antarctica out there. So. That’s that.

It is her roommate’s rough voice that I hear through the intercom, “Who is this?”

I feign a sickly sweet, entirely sarcastic voice, “Hello sweetie, it’s Ms. Trauma Case I’ve come to see –“

I can hear the anger bubbling out of her voice, “Laura isn’t here.”

“Aren’t you nurses under an oath that forbids lying?”

“Well you punk kids must know all about that considering you probably under one that requires you to be total b-“

The sounds cuts, there’s a buzzing at the door and then, “Hey, sorry about that, the doors is open.”

Before I can calm my uncharacteristically shaking hands, I have reached the third floor. I try to blame it on the cold. But I have a feeling that it may not be the cause. The heat is coming back to my cheeks by the time I reach her door. Mircalla is following me silently and closely, as if completely uncertain of this new setting. I reach down to dust the snow off her sweater as if thanking her for her support. Her uncertainty mirrors mine. I am about to knock a second time on her door when it flings open.  She is wearing a loose striped t-shirt and the fabric looks as soft and warm as her skin. It is the first time I’ve seen her hair down, and it falls on her shoulders in delicate waves. I suddenly understand Xena’s defensiveness when it comes to the small nurse.

Her smile is wide and so honest it makes me gut twist up angrily, “Hey Carmilla. You came!”

I see her eyes drift to the bow tie and I almost run away. I forgot to take it off.

“I couldn’t let you have bloody nightmares about me now could I?”

She blushes slightly.

I shoot her a questioning glance, “Unless it is already too late?”

She shakes her head, “Come in – let’s get you warmed up. It feels like we’re living north of the Wall.”

I try not to groan at her obvious dorkiness. 

She gasps, “Who is that?” Her voice switches to an annoying baby and small animal one, “What a cute little sweater!”

I move out of the way and kneel down to Mircalla, petting her head softly. Trying to get her to behave or at least not scratch the light freckles off the short girl’s skin.

“Her name is Mircalla.”

As if on cue, she smells the hand of the tiny nerd and rubs herself against her legs. I glare at her.

“What a little cutie! Here – Come in.” She picks her up as if she had been hers all along. As if this feral wild creature was but a mere toy. Mircalla you weak animal.

I follow her inside, hands playing with the shoulder straps of my backpack. Like a nervous child.

“Okay so you can sit on the sofa and I’ll get us something to snack on and –“

She must do it on purpose. At this moment, the Amazon walks in, in dark blue scrubs and a perfect glare aimed right at me, “You. So great for you to –"she notices the tiny cat in the small one’s arms, “what the hell?”

She throws her a smile before saying cheerfully, “Isn’t she so cute! She’s called Mircalla, it’s Carmilla’s cat.”

With the look she throws me, it is almost like she is accusing me of getting a cat in order to charm the tiny dork. I add her to the list of people who don’t believe I am the type to like small animals.

With a cocky grin, “What can I say? I have a soft spot for small and cute creatures.”

Xena is practically fuming. I wish I could know what’s up with her. I wonder if the nurse knows how much this giant is into her. Or if she is simply ignoring it.

“You know what? Whatever. Have a nice night Laura. Be safe. I’m only doing a half shift, so I’ll be back in four hours.” With this clear warning aimed at me, she leaves and the room feels considerably bigger.

Once the door is forcefully closed shut, she drops down on the couch. She quickly forms a smile to wash away her frown. How quickly her face changes scares me deep in my bones. People who have that skill, have often been in unfortunate circumstances in which they had to learn it. I don’t know why it makes me so much more interested in her.

She sighs, “I’m sorry about Danny. She is… a dog person.”

I shrug nonchalantly. Mircalla gets off of her lap and goes exploring the hallway.

“You want me to take off my pants, creampuff?”

She looks terrified.

I point to my leg, “You know, to see my wound?”

She laughs awkwardly, “Oh right. Yes… your wound.”

I try not to smile at her and to keep my face blank. I carefully take off the leather pants.

For a second, I see her look at my underwear. A tiny smirk appears on her lips, “Well, look at you all grown up.”

I roll my eyes. I obviously prepared for this and the boxers I have on now are just plain black.

“Hilarious how you try to pretend that seeing my boats wasn’t the highlight of your month.”

“It comes to a close second to this one lady with an intestinal obstruction that vomited Cheetos on my shoes.”

“Charming.”

“A bit like you.”

The nerve. “You deserved the orange vomit.”

She brushes nonexistent dirt from her shoulders and gets up, “Actually no! I am a model citizen filled with good intention and morals.”

She comes back with her first aid kit and starts taking off the old wound dressing, “This is looking good! It doesn’t look infected, the edges came together pretty neatly except for this part… you pulled a stitch. You might get a bigger scar on this part.”

I make a non-committal grunt and go back to playing with my nails.

I can almost hear her working up to say, “So…”

I look at her with a raised eyebrow, daring her to talk about what I fear she eventually will.

“I’m guessing the Vet must be really cute if she has you dressing up…”

I snort, “Kind of rude of you to assume I’m into women just because –“

She huffs annoyed, “Stop playing with me Carmilla. Last time I saw you, you literally had a heart shaped patch on your pants with the word Girls written in the middle.”

“Fair point.” I try to imagine the imaginary Vet that Mircalla definitely did not see, “she’s okay, I presume.”

Her hair is hiding her face while she works. I can’t help but to look at her, the movement of her hair as her hands move from her equipment to my leg, the gentle pressure on my thigh.

“I’m sorry for kind of outing you. I understand the need to keep it hidden sometimes, you know. Not even out of shame. More like a precaution? For me anyways. The nursing world is a harsh one already so I don’t usually give the people a work with a chance to gossip about me or whatever. There’s nothing nurses love more than gossip. Sometimes I feel like Danny and I are the only lesbians in the whole hospital. I don’t purposefully hide it nor engage in the hetero-normative talks… I just don’t talk about it I guess. ”

I can feel my heart beating in my fingertips. This information changes everything and nothing at the same time.

The only thing that I can get out is, “My friend Perry made me that patch.” And I want to hit myself in the face.

But it doesn’t look like it matters to the small nurse, “That’s nice! She’s really good. After an early education of barely passed art projects, I can safely say that the arts and crafts aren’t for little old me.”

I clear my throat, “Maybe I’ll ask her to make you one with surgical wounds and crazy roommates written in the middle.”

She gives me a small push, “Danny is just… Protective. She’s actually a really nice girl.”

“Of course,” I say disbelievingly, not trusting myself to say any more than that in fear of crossing boundaries.

She gets up quickly, “All done.”

I bite my lip and look around nervously. Wondering if I’ll go through with it or if she will say something.

“You’re lucky it healed so well Carmilla. You should definitely be more careful when you stalk defenseless girls past midnight.”

“What can I say, I have a soft spot for defending short annoying girls from creepy old men.”

She has a small smile on and her hands in fists at her sides. She just looks as resilient as she looks harmless, “Do you want to –“

It’s out of my mouth before I can take it back, “You want to get a coffee with me?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Raging case of writer's block, but I think the last episode of season two scared it out of me? I think?


	8. Chapter 8

“No.”

I choke on my own breath, “What?”

The blood in my veins stills for a moment. All this build up and stress and uncertainty to boil down to a refusal? Uncharacteristically, I had forgotten its possibility. Regardless of what she has said before, she is probably just doing a kind act. A moral duty. Obviously this normal, kind and –

She throws a pillow at me, “You must really like coffee,” she gestures at my face, “With the funeral face you have going on there.”

I tug on the bow tie absentmindedly, “I don’t think I can’t make it through another conversation with you without caffeine in my system.”

She scoffs, “As if you have been anything but highly entertained with me.”

“More the other way around, cutie. I seem to recall that I was the one going into a hypovolemic shock a week ago-“

A laugh breaks through her almost serious face, “Oh just shush. I was only kidding, you big baby. Let’s get some coffee and hopefully some sugary pastries.”

A big baby. That is a first. I try to, nonverbally, express my disgust and total confusion. I try hard to keep my lips pressed together. In my bag, I find my favorite knitted jumper. Thick and warm. Especially needed once the sun sets and the cold amplifies. I’m slipping on my leather jacket when I see her putting on her coat.

“You’re not going out like that.”

“Like what?”

“Practically naked. Don’t you have any sweaters? Or do you only own scrubs and one outfit?” How can she even consider going out without at least a few layers under her coat? Should I inform her that it is winter?

She walks towards the hall. When she comes back her arms are filled with sweaters and jumpers and all kinds of hideous colors and patterns that almost make me have an epileptic fit. “Enough for you, mommy?”

What a ridiculous creampuff. I take one look at her before rolling my eyes and walking towards the door, “Is Mircalla in your room?”

“Yep, she’s sleeping on my bed.”

She should be good until we come back. The sweater the short nurse puts on is a pale shade of pink with, what I assume is, a farm animal. I try to restrain all the comments. The sweater most definitely doesn’t bring out the color in her cheeks.

“Better?”

“It will have to do.”

She gives me a small push on my back, “Come on, and let’s get out of here before you,” she makes a weird face before doing an exaggerated, and totally inaccurate, imitation of my voice, "fall asleep out of utter boredom.”

She brings me to a small, open 24 hours coffee shop, only a few minutes from her apartment. On our way there, she talks about things that happened on her unit this week. She tells me about a man who stole alcohol swabs to eat them, thinking it would get him high.  She tells me about a woman with Alzheimer’s who gets up at night and how they give her towels to fold until she falls asleep again. By the time she tells me about an elderly man who chased her down the hall with his walker, accusing her of stealing his dessert, I can’t help but laugh. It is silent and restrained, but the sound makes it past my lips. I then remember what LaF said, and smile at the nurse. I don’t have the time to regret it because she smiles back.

By the time were at the counter, getting ready to order, I feel the change in my pocket becoming heavier. I know I have enough for two coffees, but I’m not sure if she chooses to buy something to go with it. I can remember exactly how every piece of money in my pocket has been gained. The type of stress this situation brings is all too familiar.

I turn to the small nurse, “What do you want?”

Her eyebrows come together, “No Carmilla, you are not paying if anything –“

I repeat her words, “If anything I owe you,” I slip my hands into my pockets, “I was the one who stalked you and turned your kitchen into a treatment room.”

She crosses her arms, “I’m not letting you pay. If you do, I’m going to leave and you’re going to be stuck with two coffees and be humiliated in front of all of these respectable people.”

The place is empty omitting the one girl behind the counter, “Cupcake –“

She ignores me and steps up to the counter, “I’ll have a hot chocolate and a large coffee with,” she looks at me.

“Nothing. I take my coffee black.”

“How predictable.”

“More like lactose intolerant.”

“I’m pretty sure a little sugar in you wouldn’t hurt.”

The waitress just looks at us, seeming more sleep deprived than I do on my bad days. The nurse hands her a twenty dollar bill. Once she has the change in her hand, we make our way to a table, “A little less in you wouldn’t hurt.”

Of course, she just smiles at me like what I said was actually a compliment. I can hardly understand. I can safely say that I haven’t been the warmest and I mock her far too often. But she doesn’t seem to mind. Maybe it’s a nursing thing? Who knows. The warm drink feels so good in my hands, probably as good as it tastes.

She blows on her steaming drink, “I actually don’t drink coffee, it gives me the jitters.”

I take one look at her fidgeting hands, “And sugar obviously doesn’t.”

She ignores my comment, “So, how is LaFontaine?”

“They are doing good. Happy to be back home.”

“Do you live with them?”

I nod, “And a few roommates. And Mircalla.”

She looks at her drink for a few minutes with a look on her face I can’t describe or understand. She shakes her head, “I don’t know how you do it. I only have Danny and sometimes it drives me insane. Like the little things. Like whenever I buy anything delicious, she always gives me a speech about polysyllabic chemicals and early onset type two diabetes. If I actually listened to her all we’d have in the kitchen would be apples and kale.” She visibly shudders.

I’m happy she doesn’t question further because I am sure I would get caught up quickly in this web of half-truths. I’m starting to think that maybe I did imagine her, that day I saw her on the street to Silas. That maybe, she truly, doesn’t know. The hope of keeping my living situation hidden feels warm under my skin. I feel like I have, for the first time in so long, a chance at a semblance of equality with someone off the streets. A chance at not being a punch line or a story quickly told at a dinner party. To not be something that is pitied or one dimensional.

I can’t hold back my interest, “How did you meet the green giant?”

“Actually we grew up together. We have been best friends since she moved in the house next to mine when I was, what, seven? She is older than me, so we only went to school a few years together. Danny spent like ninety percent of her childhood at my house so, we’re really close. And my dad loves her because they are basically the same. She’s like a sister, basically.”

I chuckle, “I’m sure she would be glad to hear that.”

She tilts her head to the side, “What? Why do you say that? Are you saying that I am –“

“What I’m saying, cutie, is that Xena has a massive, undeniable crush on you.”

She starts laughing.

I frown, “Frankly, it’s obvious.”

“If you want me to be completely honest with you Carmilla, this boat has sailed and sunk and left Rose and Jack fighting for a floating door.”

“Are you sure of that?”

She nods, “Mm, we almost had a thing when I finished high school. Long story short, that really, really, didn’t work out too well. We both realized we worked as friends but nothing more than that.”

I take a sip of my coffee, “Oh. I guess that explains her attitude.”

She shakes her head, “I know she seems intense and all but she’s actually a really good friend. You know, the type that sticks around no matter what. She actually, uh, was a foster kid. So she’s always has been kind of extremely protective of the things she values. Sometimes that includes people.”

I cannot help but imagine a younger version of the tiny nurse, getting defended by Xena. She has a tiny drop of chocolate milk on her upper lip, and I watch as her lower lip cleans it off. I feel this distant ache, because she looks so young. I cannot even pretend to be bitter that life let this girl keep something that so many others cannot.

She clears her throat, “Also, she has been kind of under a lot of stress lately which makes her, like, extra intense. There is a serious shortage of nurses that are trained to work in the surgical ward. And she has this one patient she can’t really let go of. A really weird situation, from what she’s telling me. She came in to get some gallbladder stones removed. But she has been coughing a lot, and it’s really been bothering her at home. Apparently this cough has been going on for months. At first they thought it was asthma, but eventually they found out it wasn’t. The doctors tried to rule out pretty much everything. And since they didn’t find anything, and it’s not an infection, she is probably going to get discharged next week. Danny really hates it when she can’t help a patient,” She waves her hand dismissively, “But anyways. So… you learned all the first aid stuff from your mother?”

My hand comes up to my throat and I rub it nervously. I don’t know why I feel like telling this girl something even LaF and Perry don’t know. My heart clenches almost painfully as I attempt to force myself to not try to prove this nurse that I have some worth. Worth by societal values, anyways. “I actually, well…” The stuttering feels odd and unfamiliar.

She just looks at me with her warm eyes, waiting patiently. I’m surprised she is even capable of that. Her fingers are rubbing the side of her mug slowly.

A small part of me doesn’t want the nurse to assume what I’m able to do, is due to mother’s “help”. She takes a small sip of her hot chocolate, “Are we at the part that you ask me about my past medical history, Lauranica Mars?”

She clicks her tongue in annoyance, “Could you at least try to answer my questions without being a jerk-face.”

I shrug, “Can’t, otherwise I’ll lose my air of mystery, won’t I?”

“Oh damn you and your air of mystery.”

I laugh, “And damn you right back with your reporter-style social interactions.”

I think she knows that I don’t damn her at all, because of the small smile on my lips, “Carmilla, I think you took care of one of my patients.”

“Mm?”

“Yeah, he was a man with lung cancer who had a spontaneous pneumothorax at a laundromat. You know like air between his –“

I nod, “I remember.”

She laughs, “You actually improvised such a good chest tube. He said even the ER physician what impressed. He used to tell that story to anyone who came in the room. That this girl with black hair and a butterfly on the back of her neck saved him by actually stabbing him.”

“People rarely die from pneumothorax, so that is inaccurate. First time I saw a bilateral pneumothorax though.”

She looks at me weird but doesn’t say anything.

I look at my nails, “Did he recover okay?”

She shakes her head, “Well, yes and no. Recovered from the pneumothorax but cancer was everywhere. He never went back home.”

“He was young.”

She bites her lower lip, “Yeah late 60s. But either way, old or not old it’s never really fair.”

“But you like working there regardless?”

“Mm, yeah. It’s rarely nice endings, but often it’s good people, you know, nice people. And sometimes some people make it or return home and it compensates for the bad stuff that happens. This one lady was seventy-two years old, survived all her rounds of chemo, and a few months later she was cancer free.”

“That’s good.”

She nods, “Yeah. It is. She gets to cuddle and be with her grandkids a few more years. But working at the hospital, we only see the bad cases, you know. I’m sure the nurses who work at the day center see the better outcomes.”

I take a sip of the coffee and my tongue welcomes its bitterness.

The nurse doesn’t seem to appreciate silence, “So, where does your mom work? Does she work in a hospital?”

For a moment, I almost feel like Mother is standing right behind me. My heart rate increases. I bite the inside of my cheek, “She’s in private practice, owns a clinic in Ontario.”

Her eyebrows raise, “Gosh, that’s a while away. Do you see her often?”

I shake my head, “No. I left a few years ago. I’ve been trying to limit our interactions since I was sixteen. We are infinitely better off with a few hours separating us.”

She holds her head up with her hands, “I can’t imagine having a mom that’s a doctor. Not to be all stereotypical but, a lot of physicians aren’t really the best at social interaction.”

I’m surprised that’s what she picks up from what I just said. I laugh sarcastically, “Well, she embodies that stereotype perfectly.” I don’t know what is about her. The softness in her features. The look in her eyes that make me feel like I could say anything, and it would be okay. I look away, “Saying that she is bad at social interactions is an understatement. She lacks interest in anything social or cultural. For her, for something to have value, it needs to be useful. Practical. To live up to expectations.”

Her hand twitches, and it almost looks like it was going to reach mine, “That is… How did you even survive that?”

I remain expressionless, but her question is so pertinent that I wonder how much she understands. If she is understanding more than I give her credit for. I repeat the question once again in my head and I can see myself as I once was, young and unable to breathe as I sat on the cold floor of my bathroom. “It was okay. It impacted only small, trivial things. Like not dressing up for Halloween. First time I tried a costume on I was seventeen.”

She laughs, “I would have raised hell if I hadn’t been allowed to go out for Halloween. I dressed up as Woody from Toy Story for, like, four years in a row. And also, oh my gosh, the bags of candy! When I think about it, I think I liked Halloween better than Christmas.”

I think about gory, violent things to keep myself from smiling at the image of a tiny version of her, dressed up as a cowboy. “Think I may have found my costume for next Halloween.”

“Really! I can really see you all cowboyish. I think I’m going to go as Piper this year. I’m trying to convince Danny to go as Red because you know – the hair, but she doesn’t seem too down with the idea.”

I raise an eyebrow. She officially lost me at Piper, “As who?”

“You know, Piper. The whiny white girl who messes everything up.”

I look at her, still not understanding this reference. It makes me feel like I have been living on a different planet, which maybe I have been, considering.

“Orange is the new Black?” Her eyes are wide, disbelieving.

“Oh trust me sweetcakes, orange will never be the new black.”

She tilts her head to the side, “You’ve never seen – a queer person who has never seen Orange is the New Black? I don’t believe you.”

I shrug, “My roommates don’t believe in television.”

“It’s actually on Netflix.”

I shake my head. I kind of feel embarrassed. She puts down her mug and quickly puts on her coat. So quickly, I am wondering if she is going to run away just because I don’t have Netflix.

She is wrapping her scarf around her neck when she looks at me, an expression on her face that can only indicate that either there’s is a fire in the coffee shop or that we need to flee the premises as if pursued by the police. “Come on now, Carmilla, we need to go.”

I take the last sip of my coffee, “What?”

She holds a finger up, almost poking my nose, “We need to get to my apartment ASAP. You cannot spend a second longer without having binge watched at least the first season.”

I get up, taking my time to get dressed, “Whatever you say Piper.”

She opens her mouth to say something and then closes it back again. Frowns.

“You will soon learn that what you just said was actually an insult.”

I am walking a few feet behind her. Her short legs can move at a surprisingly fast pace. She turns around and walks up to me. She grabs the edge the sleeve and pulls me, “Hurry up! We don’t have any time to waste.” My laugh echoes in the empty street.

Once we have walked up the stairs at a record time, she is fumbling with the keys of her apartment, trying to pull out the right one out.

“I’m not dying – no reason for all this twitchiness.”

“Oh hush.” She opens the door and almost throws her coat and scarf into the wardrobe. Mircalla rubs herself on my legs and purrs. I scratch her head. The tiny nurse makes her way into the kitchen and turns to face me, “Okay so I’m going to make popcorn and get some cookies and you –“

“Are we seriously going to watch that show? Now?”

Her voice goes an octave higher, clearly, extensively excited about this, “Yes! Stop pretending to be all cool and detached. You can thank me later. Go get the blankets from my bed. First room on the left.”

I raise an eyebrow, but make my way to her room regardless. I see the yellow pillow from the night I stitched up my leg and decide to bring it as well. I take a minute to scan her room. The walls are dark and bare, except for a mirror hanging besides a wardrobe. There is a desk in the corner of the room, messy and covered with pages partly filled with writing, wrappers and notebooks. A laptop is partly closed and there are two picture frames. In one of them she has a purple party hat and is hugging an older male tightly. Looking happy. I can only assume he is her father. In the other one she is sitting next to a woman, both are wearing identical smiles and Christmas sweaters. I try to not smile at the picture as I let my finger trace the frame. I walk back into the living room. I put the pile of blankets on the sofa next to me, not daring to put them over me. If I do that, I might just never have the motivation to get out of them. They are so soft and warm. I don’t even know how I’m going to convince myself that the blankets back at Silas are comfortable. A few minutes later she makes her way back into the living room, hands filled with treats and holding a bowl of popcorn. I cannot remember the last time I had popcorn. I’m trying not to get excited as well. I’m trying not to acknowledge the fact that this is the most normal activity I have done in the past year.

She gives me the bowl and puts the assortment of desserts on the coffee table, “I’m going to put my pajamas on, do you want me to lend you some?”

I just look at her, “You’re really turning this into a prepubescent sleepover aren’t you? Are we going to talk about boys later? Please tell me we’ll at least bitch about how our parents don’t understand us.”

“Your loss! Don’t whine when you get all uncomfortable in those… very tight leather pants. Which by the way – wow - but definitely not binge watching gear. And trust me, after this show you’re going to want to talk about girls.”

It is when she is gone that I feel a smile growing on my lips. By the time she comes back, she is wearing a gray shirt with plaid pants. She closes the lights and the only light that remains is dim and coming from the kitchen. She sits crossed legged next to me, with apparently very little knowledge about personal space. I barely have the time to process the slight pressure of her knee against the side of my thigh when she puts the blankets over us both.

Her nose is barely sticking out of the edge of the blanket she is holding up to her chin, but I can feel the smile that’s on her lips, “Are you ready for this amazingness?”

I sigh dramatically, “Getting ready for the disappointment.”

“Well, I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you.”

I don’t say so out loud, but she is right. I find myself chuckling and agreeing to her enthusiastic statements (“Larry is the type of guy that if you come over and ask for water, he gives you a lukewarm glass of tap water” “Alex’s glasses was probably the backbone of their relationship”). The light of the television illuminates the curve of her lips, and I figure she isn’t minding my sarcastic commentary. It almost shocks the forced and unimpressed look my face. From the corner of my eye, I watch the dark outline of her nose and jaw. I watch the way she brings the blanket higher up as she decides to lie on her side. I feel her feet sneaking under my thigh. I ignore the look she gives me, as if asking if it’s okay. I watch her turn her attention the show. After a few episodes she stops saying some the lines at the same time as the characters and is watching with heavy eyelids.

The credits of the episode is rolling on the screen. Her voice is hoarse with fatigue, “You should sleep over, Carmilla. It’s really late I could lend you my bed and –“

There is a sort of irritating tug in my chest, “And get absolutely no sleep because of your deafening snores? I’d rather not.”

She gives my thigh a little kick with the sole of her feet, “Stop –“ Another small kick, “Ruining this two girl party you jerk.”

I huff, “Stop acting like a child about to throw a tantrum in the middle of a supermarket.”

“Stop refusing my totally logical proposition.”

“Thanks, but no thanks.”

She sighs. Another episode starts.

“Well…” she starts, maybe hesitantly, “Stay for another episode?”

I give her a slight grunt in response. I presume she takes it as a yes because she lies her head down with a satisfied smirk on her face. I don’t make it through the episode. I fall asleep in a warmth and comfort that I, obviously, rarely experience. I sleep dreamlessly. But my circumstances have long robbed me of the ability to sleep deeply. It is the quiet opening of a door and the sound of sock-clad feet against the floor that wakes me. My body is jerked upwards, untangling my feet from the mess of blankets and the small girl’s legs in one smooth motion. The morning sun is starting to send its weak rays of light and floor reflects it back sluggishly. It is later than I planned to leave, and I need to do so quickly. Before she wakes up. I feel this sense of embarrassment swelling up in me. Like I have taken something that wasn’t mine to take. Like I am in a zone that prohibits my presence. Like I am licking my own wounds, filled with self-pity, waiting for someone else to make it better.

Red takes a step backwards in surprise, but doesn’t make a sound as she takes in the position of the tiny dork and our current set up. She doesn’t say a word as she looks at me. I hold her gaze, maybe trying to convince her as much as I am trying to convince myself that the nurse wanted me here.  Her eyes convey her clear lack of trust. She stands tall, her back straight, and regardless of the dark circles around her eyes, and sleep deprived stare, it lets me know how closely she guards the girl sleeping next to me. I see her take in my outfit, and I can almost hear her assumptions. I raise an eyebrow, unaffected. I then wonder if the tall one’s guarding affects her more than she can verbalize to a stranger. If throughout the years, this tight relationship has shielded others from coming. If she has lived a life of isolation, seeing others only through a dirty window. Never knowing more than acquaintances. Never acknowledging her feelings of solitude. I am still attempting to find a reason for the small nurse’s persistence.

I whisper as I slowly get out of the blankets, “I’m leaving.”

She turns around and goes in her room, closing the door behind her. I fix the blanket to cover her feet. I put it a little higher to cover her neck. Before I can realize, my hand is almost touching her hair.

It comes out more like a soft exhale of air than a whisper, “You are ridiculous and headstrong and entirely too rare.”

My eyebrows are brought together tightly as I make my way back to Silas, trying to understand what has happened. I can feel the rising sun on my cheek, and the snow crunches under my boots. Sadness, for this time, does not come alone. It comes with a distant sense of gratitude for the rare probability of the current events. Sadness comes with a beautiful face and an annoying voice. So, I willingly carry it back until I’m lying on my mat, in the basement of an abandoned building. My eyes are on the ceiling but seeing shades of gold and brown instead.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait. Here are my reasons; 1000 exams, 1000 papers to write, 1000 people getting sick around me. Regardless of my probably insane schedule, I do try hard to post once a week. Hope you liked this tiny baby of a chapter.


	9. Chapter 9

 

What I haven’t mentioned yet is how much the flow of time has changed for me. With our existences based on its consistency, it isn’t something I could have predicted. Initially, the hours in my days had a length that was both alien and deeply frustrating. It may sound obvious, but the days are long when you have nowhere to be. Up to that point my life my days had been so painfully full that I used to cut on sleep to attempt to get everything done. It started even before high school. What I remember the most about that period was the cramping pain in my legs from staying in the same position, and Mother’s disappointed look when I wasn’t focusing on the papers in front of me. My eyes would drift to the window, and from the lighting I tried to guess the time. Mother made sure to not put clocks up where I was studying, she said it served only as an unjustified excuse to start slacking. Maybe it’s at that moment in my life that I started to fall in love with the stars. When I was sent to my bedroom to sleep, excitement would fill my young self. A starry sky meant freedom. I would go through the books hidden under my bed as most of my peers went through chocolate bars and video games.

I didn’t hate Mother then. That came later. But by the time I was attending McMaster University, that whole student lifestyle of endless coffee, all-nighters and weird meals at four in the morning was already a long-established routine. Almost perfect grades were expected, not celebrated. Now, I spend my days amongst the dark sky and the few stars that manage to shine through the light pollution from the city. I don’t feel that same feeling of freedom that I clung so dearly to in my youth, but there is a certain lightness. As I look up at the moon while walking back to Silas, I curse myself for being such a nostalgic idiot.

I am carrying the textbooks borrowed from the library in my arms, far too heavy for my bag. I am hopeful that they will contain what I need. I hide the door to the basement with the dirty mattress. I drop the books on my mat and the sound echoes in the basement. Perry is currently painting on a piece of clothing while LaF is continuing their most recent project. They are trying to make an improved version of our “refrigerator”.

I mumble a quick greeting to the redheaded nerds.

“Hello to you too, cliché teenage rebellion.” Turning back to my bed, I give LaF a clear view of my middle finger.

I open the first book, looking through the index, “How’s the mad experiment going?”

They start ranting excitedly as they explain their current advancements in the project. I understand the words separately but nod regardless of how I do not understand the sentences.

I find what I’m looking for, “Good to know we are a little less likely to get food poisoning and turn this basement into a vomit pool. What time is it?”

“That is the goal. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen every biological liquid a human can produce in only the past week. It’s 2:05.”

I nod. LaF and Perry also live mostly nocturnally. I can only assume that most homeless have made the tragic error of attempting to sleep at night. I am deep into a chapter, brows tightly together and my lower lip between my teeth when I hear footsteps coming from above. That is the exact reason why we sleep in the day. I sigh and look at Perry. Her eyes are wide from fear and a hand is covering her mouth. Between the three of us, I think she is the only one whose fears haven’t faded to indifference. LaF puts their arm around her shoulders, their face cold and focused. A few minutes pass, and we can still hear the creaking of the floors.

LaF whispers to me, “You want to use the speaker tube?”

It’s the ridiculous name they’ve given to the weird apparatus that they built. It’s quite clever if I’m to be honest. They’ve connected a metal pipe from one of the vents upstairs to the basement. You can usually hear what people are saying fairly well. This helps us determine if we should creep out from the window or lay low until they leave. I make my way to the corner of the room and take off the makeshift plug.

“I bet a beer that it’s a couple trying to find a kinky place to do it.”

Perry hits LaF’s arm with a clenched fist, “LaFontaine this is not a time for jokes.”

I put my ear to the metal tube. The voices are distorted. The pattern in speech is more akin to someone my age rather than a police officer or another type of authority figure. This is a relief. One of the voices is deeper while the other voice is the exact opposite. Both seem to be female, but then again, I could be wrong.

I hear one of them, which I spontaneously name Man-Voice say, “Look, I’m all for us trying out new activities, but I never agreed to this, Nancy Drew. This place looks like a scene from a bad horror movie. Let’s leave.”

Ms. Nails-On-A-Chalkboard replies, “No, look, I know it sounds crazy, but I have a feeling about this place. I promised to watch that stupid documentary about veganism in return.”

“I would just like to tell you that it is not a stupid documentary. Actually it’s one of the best I’ve –“

“I’m sure she’s been here.”

Man-Voice sounds severely annoyed, “Look, whatever, we’ll put up posters or a picture on a milk carton or something.”

“Could you just shush and help me look. I just need to find a small sign she’s been here.”

They move around in silence.

“You know… she’s not your mother.” Man-Voice sounds hesitant and insecure.

The walking stops, “You think I don’t know that? I know she isn’t, trust me.”

Man-Voice tries to cut her off, but she continues, “My mom used to bake me heart-shaped cookies for Valentine’s Day in elementary, that were just so good, they compensated for the fact I never got Valentine’s day cards. My mom currently lives on a psych unit either hidden under blankets because she thinks people can hear her thoughts or lie down paralyzed because of all the dark thoughts that cloud her brain. My mom has lost most of her weight because she can’t eat or sleep or do all the things she needs to stay alive. My mother has blue eyes and when she smiles, it is the same as mine. I know who my mother is. I don’t need reminding. I am reminded who my mother is every single Friday that I go visit her.”

The other girl’s voice breaks, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean –“

“Just … I know what I’m doing.”

I feel a pressure in my chest and empathy for the stranger. I look at LaF and they put their hands up, questioning.

I put the plug back, “We’re safe. It’s only some kids looking for a lost animal. They should leave soon.”

Making my way back to my bed, I can’t help but think about the girl’s mother. I can see myself instead of her mother in a hospital bed, wearing a beat up hospital gown, not remembering why it is important to live. The image hits so close to home that it sends me back. Black make up mixing roughly with tears down my cheeks as I stare into a mirror, looking at a stranger. Looking at someone who only has two choices and is shaking, crushed between them.

I shake my head before returning to my book. I finally find what I was looking for and exclaim a rather enthusiastic “Fuck yes” that wakes Mircalla from her sleep. She glares openly at me. I look at her, proud.

LaF chuckles, “There must be a really good erotic novel hidden in that boring textbook.”

I ignore them, using a piece of useless paper as a bookmark. I rip an empty page from one of my books and write down my findings. In my euphoria, I write down LaF’s cell phone number in case the information isn’t clear. The strangers upstairs eventually leave. By the time a few sun rays make their way weakly through the one window left in the basement, I try to sleep. Thoughts are swimming in utter chaos and I have a hard time lying still. A sense of purpose is maybe the only thing that I miss from my other life.

It is LaF that greets me once I wake up. Once I stretch the sleep out of my body, I lazily make my way to our food. I take in the inventory. We still have a few things left, but nothing to sustain us for more than a few meals.

I turn to LaF, “I think we need to go shopping soon.”

They nod, “Was thinking the same thing. I can search the south if you take the east.”

Sometimes we divide and search the city separately. It’s more productive that way. “Where is Perry?”

“She’s working.”

I look at them, eyebrows raised, “Perry has a job?”

“Well… yeah. Didn’t you know?”

“Well clearly not, you flat bottle of orange Fanta.”

“She does house cleaning for a few ladies. Some she used to know and others that they referred her to.”

That actually sounds like the perfect job for Perry. Not only making good money while doing something she loves, but also she gets to warm up. This explains why she often wakes up early and catches up on sleep later in the day. I wonder why it is that I haven’t learned this information before.

“That’s good.”

They pass a hand through their hair, “Yeah. It is. We’re saving up for a van, actually. In case this place goes to shit.”

I am instantly filled with dread at the thought. I don’t think I would know how to survive out there, without Silas to go back to. Without LaF and Perry. Hell, without Bonnie who sometimes gives me extra hygienic products or child toys. I am learning interdependence for the first time in my life, with the shakiness and awkwardness of a child taking its first steps. I try to push the thoughts aside. I wonder if they would let me follow them. I curse myself for not being the small, adorable type that evokes protectiveness in others. I curse myself for being disposable.

My uneasiness is not missed by LaF, “But you know, we’re probably good. The city doesn’t usually destroy historic buildings like this one. We’ll probably just spend that money on really good sleeping bags. Like the ones, they use when they go up north. Or a really good pair of shoes.”

“Either way, if anyone can make it all out alright, it’s you two fools.”

They give me a small smile, “We all can. On a more positive note, the people from yesterday didn’t vandalize anything. So Silas stands strong another day.”

I then remember the note from yesterday and start getting dressed. LaF does the same. We are covered with a few layers and I have Mircalla on my shoulder when we wave each other goodbye. The small nurse lives on the eastern side of the city, so I slowly make my way towards her apartment. I am waiting for the sun to dive down before making my way to the garbage dumps of the grocery stores in that sector. I stay a little longer in the entrance of her apartment block, to warm both Mircalla and I. I fold the paper that has been burning a hole through the pocket of my jacket, and slip it in the mailbox with the numbers 307 on the door.

I have my backpack and half a garbage bag filled when I make my way back to Silas. If LaF has found as much food as I did, we are going to have a really good night at Silas. We have an arrangement, LaF tries to gather the heavier stuff. Mostly juice and cans of soda. They have a suitcase with wheels. This helps them not only carry heavier loads but look like a tourist. That can help to avoid looking suspicious. I even managed to find quite a few sources of protein; some kale (I try not to think about the face the tiny dork would make), a few containers of bruised up mushrooms, a few busted up cans of black beans and a few blocks of tofu. Ironically, I think I have never eaten as healthy as I have since I’ve been on the streets. Except for the occasional food poisoning, that is.

I like that Perry’s face expresses the excitement and content that I feel for all the food that we found. After we’ve piled it up and cleaned the food thoroughly, she starts planning out “recipes”. With the sweetness of a can of soda in my stomach, I have the energy to encourage Perry (almost) enthusiastically. That day ends with a full stomach, and I can’t ask for more. At least, I shouldn’t want to.

 

* * *

 

I decide to meet up with Perry at the library. Days have been passing by slower than usual. The sun hasn’t even set and I have filled up my water bottles, washed and bought the various things I needed. I spent an hour gathering playing guitar and attempting to gather up some money. The weather is keeping people inside, and so it wasn’t really worth freezing up the totality of my limbs. Once I see Perry, I can assume that she’s been here a while. Her coat is off and there is color in her cheeks. She is wearing her typical peach button up blouse, with the tacky embroidery of a bear face over the heart. To complete the look, she is wearing a mustard colored cardigan over it all. Sometimes I have a hard time believing that Perry and I are the same age. 

I look her up and down, “You’re lucky that you’re the unofficial Don of Silas, because or else there is no way in hell that I would continue interacting in public with you.”

I guess she pretends it’s a greeting, “Hello Carmilla, you look nice.”

With a skeptical look on my face as I turn my gaze from her to my outfit, I sit down in front of her. I look anything but nice. I open the book that I was carrying and continue my notes on a makeshift notepad made from scrap paper that I found in the recycling bin. A cheesy ringtone that can only belong to LaF’s phone goes off.

I raise an eyebrow, “Really Perry? You didn’t think of turning that unnecessary technology off? What are you doing with LaFontaine’s phone anyways?”

They look at the phone with a puzzled look, “I’m waiting for a call from one of the women I’m working for. She’s been quite sick recently, and her family live far away. So I gave her LaF’s phone number in case she needed something.”

“That’s generous.”

“Well, she’s like close to a hundred and living alone. Poor old thing. But, god, does she know all the tricks in the book for getting stains out of fabric.”

“You are clearly, slowly, absorbing her power.”

She laughs, “I wish,” the phone starts vibrating, “I have no clue who this number belongs to. Probably those evil villains who call you to say you won a free trip to some southern tourist vacation hot spot.”

I snort, “Yes, they are clearly the true plague of modern civilization.”

She looks at me and nods solemnly, “I agree wholeheartedly, Carmilla. I mean why even use that as a way to steal money? It becomes wrong on so many levels.”

I can help but to hide my smile inside my book.

“So…”

“Aren’t we in a Library?”

“Well, yes, of course dear.”

“Aren’t we supposed to be silent?”

She sighs, “Ok just let me ask one question and then we can go back to mutism, promise. How did your date with the nurse go? Are you going to see her again?”

“That was two questions –”

She exclaims, frustratingly, “Common Carmilla!”

I roll my eyes, “It was nice. We had coffee and watched television. I don’t think I’ll see her again.”

“Why not if it went well?”

I shrug, “I guess it was a one-time thing. She wanted to see me to assess the healing of my wound by some ridiculous nursing compulsion.”

“If she invited you to do something else than that maybe it wasn’t just a health thing.”

I feel the hope rise up in me and it needs to stop, “It was a health thing. She just didn’t want to be rude, I presume.”

Her voice is small and disappointed, I almost feel as bad for her as I do for myself, “Oh well that’s just too bad.”

“Yeah, it is.”

 

* * *

 

I like Bonnie’s new girlfriend. She chain smokes but at least doesn’t get high as often as Bonnie does (at least, it doesn’t seem so). She has a bass guitar with a small portable speaker and is able to follow along with pretty much any song I play. Which is entertaining for me, I guess. She replies to everything with either a snarky comment or sarcasm, and that is something I can appreciate.

She gives Bonnie a small push back, “Bonnibel, stop messing up my jam.” I see that her smile is barely hidden beneath her frown.

Bonnie pouts and pushes the other girl’s long black hair away from her face, “But you promised you’d help me find a new cap after I lost my favorite one…”

She signs dramatically but gets up anyway, putting her bass in the case that she carries effortlessly over her shoulder. “Fine, princess. You owe me.”

“What? You’re the silly reason I lost it in the first place!”

I watch them leave. The taller girl’s blasé attitude doesn’t stop her from reaching for Bonnie’s hand and helping her up. I wonder then if our chances of survival and happiness are based on the people by your side. LaFontaine has Perry, and now Bonnie has the bass player. I wonder if Mircalla counts or if I’m ultimately alone, with small alliances scattered here and there. And I can imagine going back to Mother’s house, pleading forgiveness on my bruised knees. It feels like acid rising in my throat, a certainty that this will never be an option because my chances of survival out here are higher than they ever were when I had a roof over my head and food constantly at my disposal.

The sound of LaF’s ringtone fills the basement and Perry exclaims angrily, “I am so tired of that stupid number! I am going to give them a piece of my –“ She flips the phone open, “Okay so, I don’t know who you are and very much dislike being rude, but you have been harassing me with your – your constant –“

She falls silent and the color drains from her face, “Carmilla? Oh, right, sorry just a moment.” She puts a hand over the phone, “Carmilla, it’s for you.”

I feel my heart beginning to race, “Who is it?”

She shrugs, “I don’t know, a woman, obviously quite upset by the fact that she hasn’t been able to reach you in the past week.”

My now sweaty hands take the phone, “Hello?”

Her voice is high pitched and I’m relieved that it’s her, “Obviously, I should have expected it – you are the only person in this city that would, voluntarily if I may add, give me their phone number and still remain totally unreachable. Do you even know how stressful it is when someone slips a note amongst your mail and then totally doesn’t answer your calls? Are you messing with me or is there a reason you decided to make me harass a respectable and totally undeserving girl?”

The blush on my cheeks is only made worse with the looks Perry and LaF are giving me, “Sorry cutie, I’ve been busy, I’m a very popular girl.”

She snorts, “Yeah I bet, with your manners and the pet names I’m sure you’re very popular.”

I just laugh, I can’t really understand why she’s so bothered by this whole deal, “So I’m guessing from your attitude that I wasn’t right?”

There’s just silence, “Cupcake?”

Silence again and the seconds feel like minutes, “Are you still there?”

“I’m just ignoring you until I get the strength to say what I need to say.”

My heart is pounding in my ears but my voice still seems calm and indifferent, “I think you need to work on your ignoring skills. I don’t think you’re doing it quite right, after all you did call about fifty times.”

“You were right Carmilla. I don’t know how or where you got that information, but you were right. Which is why I have been calling, I thought maybe you’d want to celebrate? With me?”

Her voice is back to her normal chipper, and I feel like she isn’t the type who likes to hang on to negative emotions. “Celebrate?”

“Yes, celebrate, because you cured Danny’s bad mood and helped a woman go back home with one less problem. Are you free Friday? Anytime after 6:00 pm? We could eat together, I thought of maybe making lasagna because I’ve been craving that for like weeks and I –“

She goes on to describe the recipe and her reasoning behind her choice, “Thank you for telling me, in great detail, how to make a lasagna. I think I’d like to hear it just one more time.”

I can almost hear her roll her eyes, “It took me a week and like, a thousand calls to reach you. The least you can do is lay off the sarcasm and listen to me.”

“I am listening.”

“Good because I have this other recipe I want to try. It’s called –“

I swear under my breath, but the corners of my mouth curl either way, “I’ll be there Friday.”

“Okay great! That’s good. I’ll see you Friday then.”

“I guess you will.”

As I sit back down and open my book once more, LaF and Perry both question me on what happened. I only give them one-word responses and laugh at their frustration. I suddenly feel important. I wonder why it is that it is so much easier to feel that way when induced by someone else.

 

* * *

 

 As I knock on the door of her apartment, I am wishing that Red isn’t going to be the one to open the door. I regret not throwing out the flowers that I am holding with a mitten-clad hand. The tiny nurse opens the door with her usual broad smile and her hair thrown in a messy bun.

She takes the flowers from my hands, “Oh my, are those for me? How uncharacteristically thoughtful of you.”

I roll my eyes, “No, they are for your charming roommate who is, undeniably, in love with me.”

She makes her way to the kitchen and I kneel down to untie my boots, “Sucks, but she’s not here right now, so we’ll just have to pretend they are for me.”

“They are from my roommate, Perry. To, well, apologize for the way she answered the phone that other night and also for my general personality.”

Her laughs bounces against the walls of her kitchen, “I think I’m going to need more than flowers to make up for that. Tell her thank you?”

She sets a flower pot, now containing Perry’s flowers, on the table. I am feeling out of place as she moves around the kitchen and checks the oven. I decide to sit down at the table, somewhat hesitantly.

“Nice apron, Betty Crocker.”

She spins around before putting her hands on her hips, “Thank you, it was either that or an imitation of a Jackson Pollock painting made with tomato sauce on my blouse.”

On her considerably small person, the apron just looks annoyingly cute. Of course, I can’t tell her that as I watch her move towards big speakers in her living room and plug in her cell phone. She searches through it with furrowed brows, concentrating. I wonder how much technology has changed since I lost touch with it. My IPod died in my first year on the streets. Right now, I have an old MP3 player that LaF generously gave me. I am fairly certain that the only things that would survive a nuclear apocalypse would be cockroaches and MP3 players.  A soft song starts filling the room, and only from the first chords I instantly recognize it.

Before I even realize it, I blurt out, “This is my favorite band.”

She goes back to the oven, looking in the tiny window, “I know.”

I look at her, completely confused, “What?”

She bites her lip and nervously pushes loose strands of hair behind her ears, “I mean, it seems like your type of an artist. You know, poetic and depressing.”

I nod, “Fair enough. I’ll admit that you are good at this. Is that what they teach nurses in school these days?”

“Yeah, we have a class on guessing which bands people like based on their general characteristics, you know, just between the class on how to keep someone from dying and doing invasive procedures.”

“Good to know.” She chuckles silently at her own joke, and it reminds me how everything she does is so endearing. She would be the type people would protect on the streets, without reasons or benefits. “Well, this looks about done!”

She takes out not one, but two lasagnas, “Are we having one each or?”

“You can if you want to. I actually made a vegan and non-vegan version –“

I roll my eyes, “So gay.”

She ignores me, “Because I didn’t know if you ate meat. I also always try to make a vegan meal on Fridays so that Danny can use it as a lunch for the weekend. Usually, she’s too tired to make herself a proper meal so she ends up eating like bird food.”

“You guys are so domestic I’m feeling nauseated.”

She throws an oven mitt at my unsuspecting face and I raise an eyebrow, not being able to not smile back at her.

She continues with her usual fast paced, determined, voice, “And both are made with lactose-free cheese so I can avoid,” She gestures with a wave of her hand to my abdomen, “all that nasty business I don’t want to have in my house when I’m not working.”

I snort, “Good thinking, creampuff.”

“So,” she points at the cause of my sudden excessive salivation, “Which do you want?”

I guess I mumble my answer too quietly, because of the shame.

She turns her head to the side, a sudden cocky expression filling up her face, “What?”

I roll my eyes once again and fear they will permanently get stuck staring at the ceiling, “I’ll take the vegan one.” Of course, I am not vegan. Not voluntarily anyways. But I eat meat so rarely that I have a hard time digesting it now. We tend to avoid meat products because of how many times we got sick from it. Or at least that was LaF’s hypothesis. Either they were right or we got better at choosing food because we haven’t gotten sick in a while.

She smiles, just so sweetly, at me when she puts the plate in front of me, along with a bowl of salad. I don’t think I will ever be able to explain how holy that warm plate looked at it lied innocently in front of me. It is then that I realize, I haven’t had a home-cooked meal since I left Mother’s house. I’m biting the inside of my cheek because I can’t help the choking feeling in my chest. I haven’t cried since I moved into Silas, but I think, honestly, if I was alone right now, I would be unable to stop it. I think comfort, like this meal, undeniably is, makes everything else harder by comparison. Just yesterday I was eating some pickled olives and I couldn’t get over how good they were – the epitome of gastronomy. I remember now, how olives were just something we forgot in the refrigerator, that I would eat when I was bored. I try to let this feeling pass. This self-pitying. It always eventually does.

She opens the refrigerator looks in it for a few seconds before turning back to me, looking obviously worried, maybe even self-conscious, “Is it okay?”

I nod enthusiastically, “It looks really good, Laura. I could almost believe you if you told me you were Italian.”

She laughs and the corners of her lips curl in the most honest, beautiful, fashion, “Gee, thanks. It was my chance to prove my extraordinary culinary skills.”

“I doubt it will beat your creative take on P&Js, but I’m willing to give it a try.” It’s very hard to not dig in. It’s excruciatingly hard to not eat the plate in less than a minute. But I remember the basics of manners, and try to wait patiently for her to sit down.

She holds up two bottles, “Since this is a celebration I bought wine, but I also have beer and all kinds of juices, so it’s up to you.”

I figure it will be my only chance to have some so, “Wine is good. Thanks.”

When she finally sits down, I decide to count back from ten in my head. An attempt at not eating like a starving animal. I feel the need to count again, once I take a bite and feel like the food is turning my taste buds into fireworks.

She is chewing on her food so casually that I try to imitate her, “Do you like it?”

I can only nod enthusiastically. I try to match the pace of my eating with her’s. “If I had known busting my leg open while stalking girls lead to meals this good I would have started doing this ages ago.”

She laughs, “So you’re saying this isn’t your typical tactic? Getting a violent open wound and then going totally hardcore badass while stitching it up without numbing the area? Gosh, I’m surprised.”

 “Let me tell you I plan lots of accidental falls on pointy objects in the future.”

She cringes, “Please don’t. I don’t think most girls would appreciate it, heck I almost fainted when I cleaned it.”

I really didn’t notice, “How ironic.”

She looks up at the ceiling, “Most people don’t become nurses because they like seeing blood. I think you’re mistaking nurses for serial killers.”

I smile at my half eaten plate.

I help her clean up the table and wash the plates. I find myself laughing often, more than I usually do, and I can only blame the wine for going straight up to my head. The kitchen is clean again, and it almost feels like the supper never happened. Like it was just fantasy I made up in the basement of Silas. But Perry’s flowers are still on the table and they remind me that the moment is actually happening. That the fullness in my stomach won’t disappear once I wake up. That the warmth on my skin isn’t an illusion.

She sighs as she puts away the last plate and turns to me, as if unsure what to suggest to me now.

I grin and look at sparkles of gold in her eyes. I don’t think that until now, I have been close enough to notice them. I bite my lip to keep any semblance of a compliment from coming out, “Do you want to go on an adventure?”

She laughs, “You sound like either a child or an adult about to suggest a very dangerous activity.”

“Oh shut up. Are you brave enough for this, Hollis?”

“How do you even know my –“

“That’s irrelevant. You told me the first day you took care of LaF. So, are you?”

I can feel her getting excited, and maybe it’s contagious, “Heck yes. What do we need to bring?”

Thirty minutes later my backpack is stretched to its maximum capacity, filled with a blanket, snacks, and the leftover wine. I tug my scarf a little higher. Once we arrive I look at the tiny gay nurse, thankful she listened to me when I told her to dress warmly. Regardless of her layers she is still visibly shivering. I stop and look at her, daring her to say something.

Her eyes are wide, “Oh my gosh Carmilla, I knew it was dangerous activity… not to mention I think it’s maybe illegal?”

I raise an eyebrow, challenging her, “I’ve done this a thousand times. It’s worth it, trust me. The hardest part is reaching the ladder, but after that it’s just normal stairs.”

I see her swallow nervously.

“Are you afraid of heights?”

She sighs, “Well, I’m clearly about to find out.”

I help her get on the garbage bin, trying not to laugh at how clumsy and awkward her movements are. She may have everything else, but I definitely have the agility and dexterity that I have practiced constantly in the past years. I make sure to stand close to her, in case she slips. She stands still as she looks up at the ladder, a few meters high. I’m trying to see this through her eyes, as I’ve gotten used to these situations I can hardly even see the risks anymore.

I put a hand on the small of her back, pushing her forward the tiniest bit, “Just don’t look down, cutie. I’ll let you break your fall with my body if it comes to it.”

“Gee thanks, Carmilla.”

“You’re welcome.”

She surprises me and makes her way up in steady fashion. From the breath she draws in when we reach the rooftop of the building, I know it is because she realizes that it was worth it. From here we can see the sea of high-rise buildings that make up this place, the lights shining like the stars that have abandoned the city.

Her eyes are focused on the view, “I didn’t take you for the romantic type.”

I snort, “I’m not.”

She laughs, “Secret place? Beautiful sight? Sacrificing your life to save me if I fell?”

“Whatever, nerd.”

She hits my chest with one of her ridiculous fluffy mittens. I try to glare at her before taking everything out of my bag. I kick off the little bit of snow present to lie the blanket down. Once I sit down, I stretch my legs and look at her. I allow myself to take in her rosy cheeks and her wide eyes in awe, like this place, suddenly became a new city for her to learn.

“So, was it worth it?”

She sits down next to me and takes a sip from the bottle before passing it on to me, “Maybe not worth dying for, but definitely worth learning I have a fear of heights for.”

We sit in silence for a while, and I can feel a question building up in her. I can’t help the anxiety that rises up in me.

“Carmilla?”

I only hum in response.

“How did you really find out what was wrong with Danny’s patient?”

I take a sip, trying to keep a thousand words from spilling, “Well, surprisingly, I can read.”   

Then, suddenly her warm hand is on my cheek, turning me towards her. My heart is beating a rhythm that is unfamiliar and terrifying. I don’t know which is worse at this proximity, her lips or her kind eyes. I don’t understand this ache in my core. I don’t understand the way my neurons have lost all connection with each other.

Her voice, soft and warm like a summer breeze in spring, “Stop,” her fingers now holding my chin as I sit, paralyzed, “Messing with me, Carmilla.”

“I’m a med student.” The answer comes out automatic, and I wonder if this is why she used the physical contact. Knowing, by experience, that it would get her answers.

She jerks her hands back and chokes on her own breath, “What? Okay, stop –“

I look away, and say nonchalantly, “Was a med student.”

She looks at me like she doesn’t know if she should believe me, “How is that possible, I mean, you can’t be that much older than me and – so what, you mean you were premed?”

I shake my head, “I have a year left of medicine.”

She looks like she is about to explode with questions, and I’d laugh, if I didn’t feel so nervous and ashamed, “You stopped because you didn’t like it or it was too hard or-“

“I’m not going to give you the tragic backstory, cutie. I got sick and had to take a break. Which is what I’m doing right now. I thought maybe I had given up on it, a while back. I don’t think I have. I don’t think I can.”

The cars honk in a distance, a group of drunk people sing off tune to an overrated pop song, there is the slight hum of a song playing in the apartment below and the tiny persistence is looking at me, in such an unwavering fashion that I cannot understand it. There is this look in her eyes, like determination and fire. And I have never seen someone look at me like that before, so I look away. Not knowing what to say or what it means.

She smacks her lips together, “Well,” she takes the wine bottle from my hands, “that officially explains your, clearly, impaired social skills.”

I can only give her a small push, not able to keep myself from chuckling at how ridiculous she is. At how ridiculous I am, too.

  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, dear readers. If you want an alphabetized version of my excuses, please feel free to send me anon hate @ reallylikesogay.tumblr.com. I'm kind of nervous putting this chapter out there, so I hope you enjoy. (Also thank you for the good lucks for my exams you guys are just the sweetest)


	10. Chapter 10

 

Mircalla purrs against my chest. I have enough money to pay back LaF and a little to spare. I started contributing to payments for the cell phone, considering my recent need and use of it. I have enough left for either a small meal or food for Mircalla. I put her on my shoulder while I go in the pet store.

The cashier can’t help but to gush at the tiny creature, “Oh my god, she is so cute in the little sweater.”

Fucking Perry, “Yeah. She gets cold easily.”

“She’s so docile… you probably trained her well when she was a kitten.”

I just nod. Wanting to get out of here as fast as possible because I’m starting to feel weak and the sound my stomach is making is becoming alarming. I think about the various fruits and vegetables left back at Silas to comfort myself on the way back.

I’m happy that both Perry and LaF are present once I enter the basement. I have a couple of hours to kill before leaving again and I haven’t gone to get new books.

“Hi, Carmilla! Gosh, it’s been a while since we’ve done something all together like this.”

I snort, “Someone is carrying the illness that is the holiday spirit.” I nod in LaF’s direction. They are looking up at me from a book that appears to be on computers. “I have your money.”

They frown, “Carmilla, you don’t have to.”

“Yes, in fact, I do. It is only fair that I pay my part.”

They sigh, “You don’t have to pay now. If you need to money for something else –“

“I bought food for Mircalla. I’m good.” I open a can of cat food, that she starts eating with obvious enthusiasm, before making my way to LaF. They take the change with a bitterness that is made clearly evident. I look at their very clean and proper outfits, “What have you guys been up to?”

Perry brings a hand to her chest, “Oh, we had the nicest morning. Didn’t we LaFontaine? We sneaked in an Inn that serves free breakfasts. I know it is immoral and illegal and all that but if you saw how food is wasted, I think you would be outraged.” She turns to LaFontaine, “I think I’ll be full for a week.”

They laugh, “Well you had like fifteen waffles, what did you expect?”

I grab some food and sit down on my mat. Too soon after I have a few apple cores next to my bed and I’m wolfing down slices of tofu. You’d be surprised how good raw tofu is with a little salt. Or maybe it’s actually horrible and my nervous system is sending every signal that will encourage me to eat.

LaF puts their book down, “I found something for you. They are too small for me or Perry.” They throw a pair of thick, thermal leggings at me.

I put my hand inside and I am amazed by not only their softness but their warmth, “Thank you.”

They shrug, “I found a couple of them while dumpster driving behind the mall.”

I wish there was a “thank you” that could express how grateful I am. For the pure luck, I feel to have them both here. To have people to talk to. But this is not something I’m able to do so, “You’re slowly turning me into a typical heterosexual white girl. Next thing you know I’ll be ordering overpriced lattes with names that are impossible to pronounce.”

“Whatever you want to do, fangs, I support you.” They look at Perry as she gets a bag from their closet, “So, are you seeing your girlfriend tonight?”

A shiver builds into back of my neck before shooting down my spine, “She’s about as much my girlfriend as Bonnie is yours”

Their eyes are big, maybe even scared, “Fuck, and risk getting beat up by that terrifying girlfriend of hers?”

I laugh, “Scarier than me? I’m almost offended.”

They snort, “You’re about as scary as a ball of dust.”

I throw the core of one of my apples at them, in a very mature fashion.

Clearly trying to calm this down, “Carmilla, you wouldn’t be able to guess what my new knitting project is. I’m trying to make a carpet that covers the whole basement of Silas. Wouldn’t that be just so comfortable? It would help with the cold. It gets so cold in here, especially when all you guys are gone. I think this building was made on top of an iceberg. Do you want to help? I should show you how – there’s this way you can knit using only your hands –“

Maybe I help her because I think she had a good idea, even if a little too ambitious. Maybe it is a way of saying thank you. But I do it, regardless of the fact that I am absolutely terrible at it.

I’m trying to correct a hopeless stitch. Perry is trying to be casual, but the hesitancy in her words is loud, “So, Carmilla, what’s happening with your friend, Laura?”

I grunt but answer her regardless, “There is nothing happening. She just invites me over once in a while.”

LaF laughs, “Yeah, if by once in a while you mean every single Friday for the past month.”

“She needed help.” She did. It is all very coincidental.

“Mm. Right. Needed help to watch television? To scratch her back and whisper sweet nothings in her ear?”

I roll my eyes, “No, she needed help painting up the walls of her guest room.”

“Isn’t ‘Xena’ more qualified to do that than you, with your considerably small height?”

“Fuck you LaF. I’m a very respectable height. Taller than you anyways. And the warrior princess is too busy commanding an army of a thousand hetero girls.”

“How about last week?” They are grinning, truly enjoying this, while Perry is looking at me very attentively. “You certainly didn’t come back half covered with paint.”

“She needed help shopping for a new bed.”

They put a hand under their chin, pretending to be deep in thought, “And obviously, you are truly the best person to go shopping for furniture with.”

“Fuck you.”

They gesture towards my part of the basement, “Considering your talent with home décor.”

I chuckle trying to hide my discomfort with the whole situation, “My talents are undoubtedly limitless. You better watch your girl.”

Ever the peacemaker, Perry says, “Oh shush you guys. Are you seeing her tonight?”

“Why are you so suddenly interested in my social life?”

Perry visibly pales, and LaF’s shrug feels awkward. Perry clears her throat, “I just think having friends would be good for you, Carmilla. Other than us, of course.”

“Right.”

If only I could wipe that smirk off LaF’s face, “So what are you guys doing tonight – I mean, what does she need you to help her with tonight?”

I mumble, “She needs help carrying the new bed to her apartment.”

They laugh, and I roll my eyes, but somehow it doesn’t feel genuine, “I am only in it for the free food and TV shows.”

“Of course, you are.”

Perry looks at me, now serious, “Doesn’t she have parents? You know, that could help her with these kinds of things?”

“Her father lives south of the city. I don’t know about her mother. I think her parents are separated, or I’ve gathered, from the few times I’ve heard her talk about them. I don’t think her mother lives here.”

Perry nods. She understands what living without parents means, in the most brutal literal sense. Which is why she asks. And worries. From what I’ve learned, she was raised by her mother, father long gone by the time she was born. She once said that her mother always told her that accidents are only things we didn’t plan and that the best always comes unexpectedly. It only reminds me how easy it is, to avoid having someone think they are a mistake. And when I think of my own mother, maybe, how is easy it is for someone to make you feel the opposite as well. If that wasn’t rough enough, raising a child on her own, she died in a car incident when Perry was quite young. Which is why Perry was then raised by her grandmother. Which, in turn, explains her fashion sense and resilience. Once again, I cannot help but think about the way strength is rarely just fire and obvious. How most often, true strength is found in the most mundane of activities. Being able to get out of bed and to feed yourself and to smile. Perry gives me a cookie she probably baked while she was working this morning with a soft squeeze of my shoulder. My utter respect for someone I wouldn’t have looked twice in my past life is completely understandable when I consider Perry as a whole.

My mouth is half full with the obscenely delicious cookie when I say, “The girl at the pet shop was completely in love with Mircalla and her sweater. I might have to file a restraining order.”

Perry almost squeals, “Isn’t she so cute! I’m so glad I found that little sweater. Being as thin as she is, she must get so cold outside.”

With the limited quantity of fat on my own bones, I know how true that is. The exact way the cold clings possessively to bones. I pat Mircalla as she makes her way to my lap, so terribly sorry that I can help her put some meat on her just as much as I can on myself. Which is to say, barely. I know from the sound of the steps above that Bonnie is here. She makes her way down the stairs with her usual bounce in her step and flowy movements. The bass player not far behind her, an eyebrow perpetually raised as if constantly unimpressed.

Bonnie waves around the room, “Hey guys!”

Her girlfriend nods in our general directions, “Nice party.”

I snort, “I’m glad everyone got the memo on our family reunion.”

Bonnie just looks at me seriously with furrowed brows, “I wouldn’t have missed it for anything in the world.”

The bass player doesn’t say anything but just gives her a container with what appears to be leftovers. The smell fills the basement and I try to not look at it like a rabid, starving animal. The other girl’s unimpressed attitude only breaks once Bonnie is talking to her. From here I can hardly understand what Bonnie is saying. Probably her usual nonsense. But the other girl is looking at her, looking so open and kind it feels almost like a change too drastic from her usual demeanor. She lets the pink-haired girl play with her hair and trace shapes on her arms.

“Bonnibel, you need to eat.”

“We don’t have the time – we need to go. The Candy Kingdom needs us I just got a message – “

She gets up at a such a speed it’s a wonder she doesn’t fall right back down.

“Just a few bites, please. And then we can save any kingdom you want.”

Bonnie takes a few bites before giving the container back to the bass player. She quickly goes up the stairs, talking nonsense about things that seem straight out of a bad comic book. For me, a reminder to never use drugs as a method of entertainment.

LaF laughs, “I’ll have whatever she’s having.”

The bass play stops in her tracks, smiles at the pink-haired girl “Bonnibel, wait for me at the door, I’ll come meet you.”

Once we hear the door close, she turns to us. Glaring with such hostility that it seems she doubles and size. I don’t doubt that she could set fire to the whole freezing city with that look.

She looks at LaF, “So you idiots want to have schizophrenia? That sounds like a fun time for you?”

My eyebrows have probably reached my hairline and I can see LaF’s face crumble in shock and guilt. And maybe fear. Both redheads are speechless, and even I can barely choke out a, “What?”

“You fucking heard me. You think all of this is funny? I don’t understand what she sees in you guys that make her trust you enough to sleep in your presence. Hell, it took me weeks before she allowed me to even step a foot inside this wreck. You guys think you have it hard, being homeless and all that crap. But try being homeless and surviving in a world that you are only partly in. In complete and constant isolation. Not only does she have to survive out here, but she is so good that she feels it is her duty to protect some faraway kingdom.”

Perry is wearing that face that she makes when she’s trying to not get too emotional. LaF has their hand on their neck, rubbing it in a nervous fashion, “Look, we’re really sorry… we didn’t know. We thought it was just drugs.”

“Whatever. She’s better than this. She probably better than all you guys together. The sooner I get her out of this, the better.”

And with that, she’s out of the room, leaving only this terrible feeling of guilt and humiliation. How could I have not known this? But of course, it only makes sense. I look back at the past months, her attitude, her unblinking eyes, the lack of sleep and eating. The way she’d talk back to silence. The way she was unable to deal with more than one question at a time. I feel regret boiling up in me. She shouldn’t be out here. She should be in a hospital, getting help, to at least have some support in dealing with one of the most violent illness.

Perry smacks her lips, “Well, I really do like her. I hope she keeps coming back.”

LaF and I both look at her, bewildered. We both laugh, because, between the three of us, Perry is the absolute best at seeing the good in people.

 

* * *

 

I put Mircalla on the ground before knocking on the nurse’s door. She opens the door, wearing a (gay) red plaid shirt and the world’s biggest pout. Her eyes are filled with tears that she tries rubbing away with her sleeve.

I look at her, understanding washing instantly over me, “Grey’s Anatomy?”

She puts her arms around me, mumbling a stifled, “Yeah” against my scarf. At first, I am glad that I made sure to wash all my clothes before coming to see her. Friday has officially become my laundry day. I have gotten so used to certain unpleasant odors that I sometimes fear that I might not smell too fresh and not realize it. I try to command my hands to do something else than stand paralyzed at my sides, having a hard time understanding that affection is something that is this easily given. I try not to visibly breathe her in. But it is hard not to because she smells so incredibly good. Like soap, laundry detergent, shampoo commercials, and sugar. Like a warm house, with freshly baked cookies in the oven.

I sigh, “You need to stop doing this, you sadistic nurse.”

She pulls away, “But it’s so good. And Danny never lets me watch it when she’s here because she knows I cry like constantly,” She picks up a purring Mircalla, “And it distracts her and it’s bad for the environment because I use all the tissues.”

I shrug, “Surprising she hasn’t gotten used to it. I definitely have. You could ugly cry for hours on end and it would probably take me a while to notice.” Which is a (white) lie. I'm definitely on the giant's team for this. Seeing her cry is like watching a baby deer getting hit by an eighteen wheeler. With its mother watching. But I would take that sight before knowing she has been gross crying alone.

She hits my arm, “What? I haven’t cried about it that often- “

I don’t let her finish that sentence filled with lies, waving a hand dismissively, “Yes you have. But whatever. You could be crying about worse things.”

She just looks at me, like I’ve acknowledged something she didn’t expect, “I guess you are right, Carmilla.”

“Of course I am.” I unzip my coat, “Are we going to get the bed now or?”

She shakes her head, a guilty look on her face, “It’s actually pretty heavy so I thought we could eat before? So you don’t end up fainting on your way up.”

I roll my eyes.

“It may be what I like the most about you.”

I give her a questioning glance, not knowing what she is referring to.

“That you let me cry about Grey’s Anatomy without questioning my mental health.”

“If it was all that took to ruin your mental health, they would be packing people in psych units like sardines in a can. And it would look just as disgusting.”

She laughs. Maybe she cannot understand how much that causes a feeling of validation, as I cannot understand it myself. I take off my coat and put it on the coat hanger next to her door, in the usual spot, right next to her’s. I follow her in the kitchen, where she is holding Mircalla against her like a child. She stirs the contents of the pot while talking to the cat in a strange baby voice.

“I don’t think she likes being called Princess fluffy paws.”

She doesn’t even turn to me, but looks at the purring humiliation on her shoulder, “Why I don’t think that’s true at all, isn’t it? Miss Princess fluffy cutie paws?”

I can easily understand why the cat lets itself be picked up like that, cradled against her. She is warm and just so soft. Something I cannot say about myself. It is then I notice the small animal bowl right next to the kitchen table. One is filled with water while the other is almost overfilled with cat food. My brows come together, confused and trying to understand.

“You and the amazon adopted a cat?”

The small girl sighs, “I wish. No, Danny still says we are ‘too busy’ to properly take care of a cat. Regardless of how many times I harass her to get one.” She pulls out two plates, “Which I think is lesbian code for I don’t like cats, but I can’t say so out loud because even if it is a silly stereotype, the whole community might hear and I might never find love.”

I bite my lip, willing myself to say it, “Thank you.”

She finally turns to me, her eyes causing a sudden warmth to my cheeks and neck, “For?”

“Well, for getting food for Mircalla. And you don’t have to cook for me every single –“

She shakes her head, “I wasn’t raised by wolves. I can’t just have you come over and help me and not feed you.”

“I don’t know about the first part, but you should, at least, let me contribute –“

She laughs, “And what? Lose all my reputation as a good person and host? I think not. How could I ever show my face in public after that?”

“Your reputation is probably ruined by just having me here.”

“What? No. A nurse friends with a med student? My peers would praise me as being totally open minded and accepting of those with less favorable personalities.”

I smile at her back, “You are the reason doctors don’t like nurses.”

She snorts, “Well like me or not, Carmilla, we’re still the ones who do all the hard work and keep your patients from dying when you’re not there. Which is to say, ninety-nine percent of the time.”

The only person who was ever kind to me in my mother’s clinic was the nurse. I can’t explain to her how with her kindness, she made it so that most nurses have my automatic respect and trust. I take off my sweater, “Can’t argue with that.”

“Wow, that is a first. Are you getting so bored with me that you don’t want to argue with me anymore?”

I see her look into the cooking pot and I suddenly feel so afraid. Terrified that she could drop Mircalla on the hot stove. What if she dropped her? I don’t think she understands that she is currently holding in her hand the totality of my family unit. If she falls and breaks her leg, I don’t have the means to fix it. Managing to dig up some money for food with questionable quality is one thing – to get care that costs a minimum of a hundred dollars per visit is another thing. I doubt even Perry and LaF have that kind of money. I try not to scream out at the nurse, who is walking around carefree in the kitchen, humming a soft tune. Because what she is doing is normal. This is normal. People don’t usually calculate their every step, to make sure their pet doesn’t get injured.

“If we’re coughing up fur balls later, from all Mircalla’s hair that fell in the food – it is your fault.” She grabs Mircalla and holds her high, “God, be careful with her.”

She just laughs, “Look at you – you certainly didn't seem like the maternal type. Carmilla, you understand that sometimes I’m actually holding needles into people’s veins that are so big that they can be used as straws? I’m actually quite agile and coordinated –“

I sigh, exasperated, “For fuck’s sakes, you injured delusional gazelle, you sometimes drop your fork as you’re eating.”

She bites her lip, “Well… that is… well that is true but that’s not the same and-“

“Hell, sometimes you can’t even manage to bring a handful of popcorn to your mouth. You probably have the equivalent of a small harvest of corn in the cracks of your sofa.”

She puts the cat with exaggerated carefulness, “Happy?”

“Ecstatic.”

I help her set the table. I try not to dwell on how domestic and familiar this feels, with Mircalla eating in her bowl and the small nurse telling me about her week. She knows by now that I like when she does that. This is better than reading notes dropped by nurses after their shift, in that small park near the hospital. She gives me more information than she used to, making sure to tell me what medication the doctors prescribed and the treatment plans. I cannot go to that park near the hospital, fearing she might see me, but on the other hand, first-hand stories are significantly more stimulating.

I grab a piece of, so very fresh, bread, “So why didn't they switch the type of anticoagulant? If he was that uncooperative and aggressive during the blood draws?”

She throws her hands up, “Exactly. Seriously, you have not truly feared for your life until you've inserted a needle in the arm of a man needing four people to contain him.”

I can only imagine the scene, with the small nurse trying to avoid getting hit by an elderly man, “Maybe rivaroxaban would have been appropriate. Although no antidote is currently on the market, you don't need any blood work to monitor it and it's given orally.”

She looks at me quizzically.

“Xarelto?”

“Oh right, yes that would be awesome. I left a note for his doctor, I'm hoping for at least heparin. Anything else, honestly. Please remember, when you're this hotshot doctor, that anticoagulants that require blood draws, truly suck. Seriously, the only one that like doing that are like, night nurses and surgical nurses.”

I snort, “I'll make sure to keep that in mind when I'm making sure my patients don't stroke out.” It is so incredibly strange that her saying that out loud, makes it a possibility once again. That maybe I can finish what I started. That I can gain control once again. That I can be important.

How good the food is, how hard it hits me every time, is not something that has changed although I feel a lot of other things have. Since Perry and LaF, I haven't had constant contact like this. The small nurse calls me, without fault, at the beginning of each week. The reasons why differ but the result is always the same. Every Friday I am in her apartment. Every Friday she feeds Mircalla and I. I've almost gotten used to her weird posters and floral prints. It terrifies me, simply because I look forward to it. It terrifies me, because maybe, I look forward to seeing the nurse as much as I look forward to the food. That in itself isn't something I thought I'd feel again. Not until my basic needs being met are taken for granted once again, I presume. So, it terrifies me and I fear the week she won't call. I don't think I can cope with the disappointment. But I know, inevitably, I will have to. It causes this need to distance myself, to detach myself. I try not to look at the perfect curl of her eyelashes when she's looking down. I will myself not to look at her concentrated look when she watches a movie she really likes. I force myself to not melt under the sheer warmth of her smile as she looks at me. But most of all, I try, with all the strength I have ever possessed, not to feel happiness when she argues with me like she most sincerely cares. Mother never argued with me, her word always final and mine never pertinent or important enough to consider. I so quickly realized how irrelevant I was, based on the quality of attention she gave me. Maybe only one other person in my short life has cared enough to talk back, to challenge, although never to the intensity that this girl has. How equally precious and terrifying this feels.

She laughs, “You know, you're the perfect guest to cook for – you eat like it's a science. Like it's so complex, you need to evaluate every aspect.”

I have been trying to slow down the rate at which I eat, thankfully it has proven useful, “I'm trying to detect the presence of any dairy product. It's only a matter of time before you try to destroy my gastrointestinal tract.”

“I already told you – I would never put the life of my bathroom at risk like that. You should know me better than that by now. Putting hairs and spitting, however…”

I scrunch up my nose, “You are utterly disgusting. Your wolf parents probably have better manners.”

She raises her hands up, “You brought it up, with all that GI tract talk at the table. If anything, you're the one being rude.”

I clear my throat, “I had a question. I was wondering if maybe you could help me.”

She looks at me, almost alarmed.

I look away, “It's nothing life-threatening. Well to me, anyways. I know you're not a mental health nurse, but I have this friend who was diagnosed with schizophrenia. My knowledge is quite limited to the pathophysiology. I was wondering if you had any tips or -”

She brings a hand to her mouth, “Gosh, that really sucks. Is it a recent diagnosis? Are they refusing treatment?”

I carefully explain to her the situation. Trying to avoid saying that she is homeless, to not give any clues to why I would know her or want to help. I know that some days, it takes a group of three to keep each other going. I cannot imagine the weight the bass player carries. I think, maybe, that I should attempt giving back the help that Perry and LaF gave me, that one day I started to live with them.

She sighs, “Well. She needs treatment. She can only be involuntary hospitalized if she becomes a danger to herself or to others. But for now, I guess the best thing is to be attentive. Patient. Make sure her basic needs are met. Use simple and direct language. Try to keep her stress level down. Be kind, I guess is what I'm saying. If she trusts you, you're already ahead, honestly.”

I am infinitely thankful for IKEA, as the bed was contained separately in various boxes. I doubt the both of us could have carried anything else up three floors. I'm trying to keep the hyperventilation to a minimum, probably for the sake of my ego, but the nurse is clearly not hiding her exhaustion. She drops on the sofa like a block of cement.

“Well, that was my workout for the month.”

I smile at her, thankful her eyes are closed and that it doesn't ruin the sarcasm out of, “You are so ripped. I need to know your workout routine.”

She stretches her arms above her head, not unlike Mircalla does in the morning, “It's mostly extra walking because I forget stuff in patient rooms and carrying IV pumps.”

The position of her arms exposes the smooth skin of her stomach, the slightest bump indicating that she is healthy enough to demand space. Before I can stop myself, I find myself watching her sides grow into the curve of her hips, the fullness in her thighs. I take in her collar bones and the exquisite way that the ribs underneath do not stick out like broken piano keys. No anatomy book can explain the graceful way in which bones and muscle and integumentary tissues come together and create something so undeniably appealing. I think maybe, this is what bodies are meant to look like. All soft edges and beauty. Panic swells in me, I can almost feel that same dread, that I felt that time I was on the stairs with LaF.

“For a small girl, you can certainly carry your weight.” She laughs in her usual dorky way.

“Please, you're like barely three foot tall.”

Her eyes open, pretending to be insulted, “I am of average height, thank you very much. I only look small because Danny literally towers over me.”

I move to sit on the edge of the couch, careful not to touch any part of her. I take off my sweater, now almost clinging on my skin.

She looks at me, tilting her head to the side, “Have you always been this skinny, Carmilla? Like I don't know if it's inappropriate to ask but it's not because I don't think you look good because, I mean,” she clears her throat nervously, “Like you do, this is not -”

I decide to put her out of her misery, “No, I haven't.” I have been so much worse, you sweet, naive girl. I've had my veins stretching out of skin that could barely contain them anymore. I have lost maybe a quarter of my weight since I left Mother's house, and I still haven't been able to completely gain it back. I almost want to tell her, that I have been so much better. That I've had color in my cheeks and a body you could hold that couldn't cut you if you held on too tight. “Med school side effect.”

I can almost see the relief on her face.

“I need to go to the bathroom.”

“Right, okay. You remember where it is?”

I roll my eyes, “Right next to your dreamboat of a roommate’s room.”

I bring the cold water to my face. Trying to calm me down. Once I look at my pale face, I am thankful for the lack of mirrors at Silas. I always have had a prominent jawline and cheekbones, but now they are just that much more evident, they look like they could kill. I see the way my black t-shirt hangs from my body. I cannot help but to lift up the edge, to assess the extent of the damage. The current reality. The way that my hipbones stick out looks like an illness. Maybe the dirty streets have sharpened my bones, but it has made me soft because I've always had enough confidence to never second guess how good I looked. I don't understand why, but the word cachexic comes back to me, coming from seemingly prehistoric times. I remember using it as a term for the sick and the dying. Something that could never belong to me. But now it rings in my ears. It is tattooed on the gaps between my ribs. It feels like hopelessness because I can't do better than I am doing now. I'm eating better than I have when I started living at Silas. Hell, I'm eating balanced, proper meals once per week. Once I'm back on the couch with the nurse, I am together once again. Collected. I make sure to put my sweater back on.

I guess that she felt something, perhaps even unconsciously, because when I come back she has the fluffy blanket bunched in her arms and two sodas. Like a peace offering.

Her lips curl around the edges, “You want to binge watch sad movies?”

I roll my eyes but smile either way.

“I'm trying to find a movie that's going to make you,” she imitates me, or, at least, fails dramatically attempting to do so, “ugly cry over completely irreverent and fictional stories.”

And we do just that. She never fails to make her way to my side of the couch, bringing her constant warmth and the smell of home. She grips my arm with her tiny hands during the sad parts. Life must be so easy when you're as easy to like as she evidently is. She falls asleep against me before the second movie ends. I wonder what it is she does that knocks the energy out of her like that on her day off. Probably the accumulation of her week. She looks so small like she could fit in the palm of my calloused hand. I realize I cannot leave her on the couch, to wake up with her neck at an odd angle. And with tachycardia and goosebumps coming and going on my skin like the lights from the passing cars, I manage to carry her to her bed.

I am carefully putting her blanket on top of her when I hear her mumble, “Stay, Carm. I can sleep so easily when you're there.”

I am confused, but brush it off, “You need to work on your sleep-talking insults, cupcake. I feel so bad that I'm going to help you; of course, you can sleep better since I bore to death and back.”

Her sleepy smile is lopsided and other things I rather not admit, “Just stay.”

“That's not in my contract, cutie. I'll see you whenever the unfortunate circumstances force us to meet once again.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, with the end of this finals and anxiety filled week approaching, I've managed to finish this little chapter. Honestly, repeating myself but, thank you so much for every one of you that gave kudos or commented this story. You have no idea how much I appreciate it and how much it matters that someone, somewhere is appreciating this story. Seriously I'm thinking of proposing to all of you. I'm probably going to go ring shopping soon. As always, let me know what you think, what you think may happen, what you want to happen, what object Carmilla should throw at LaF or what food Carmilla will go on a rant about next chapter. I hope you enjoyed.


	11. Chapter 11

 

Her face is cold, an eyebrow raised so high I'm afraid she might be sore afterward, “So what are you getting out of this?” The bass player has her arms crossed over her chest, waiting impatiently for my answer. I would be lying if I hadn't expected this level of intensity from the taller, dark-haired girl.

I sigh, trying with all my might to not resort to sarcasm, “I'm just giving back what was given to me.”

She snorts, “What is that? Bad sex that has forever impaired your personality?”

While looking in her winter blue eyes, I try to remember that I would probably do the same if I had to protect someone I loved, “No, just help.”

She runs a hand through her hair, clearly trying to figure out the extent of my sincerity. Evidently untrusting.

I rub the back of my neck, “Look. It is obvious how we must seem to you. But we have been exposed to so much eccentric behavior and maybe we've become desensitized to it. That is not meant as an excuse, but an explanation. Information. But LaFontaine and Perry are good people. LaFontaine fixes her pink junk when it breaks and she freaks out. Perry always shares her freshly baked food with all of us. And I know sometimes she doesn't have enough left for herself. We have shared the best shelter we have known with her, for the better part of a year. We just want to help.” I put my hands in my pockets, “I just want to help you both in any way that I can.”

She looks just as distrusting, but seems a little less hostile, “So there's absolutely nothing in it for you?”

I shrug, “Just trying to not be a shitty human being, I presume.”

She nods, taking it in.

I take a chance and extend my hand, “Carmilla Karnstein.”

Her hand is warm and firm against mine, “Marceline,” She rolls her eyes and almost smiles, “Or also known as the Vampire Queen by Bonnibel.”

I can't help but smile, remembering a moment that now seems so long ago, “Nice to finally meet another one of my kind.”

“What?”

I shake my head, “Long story.” I sit on the ground, attempting to have a less confrontational stance.

She awkwardly sits next to me, hugging her knees to chest.

I hesitantly ask, “Where did you two meet?”

“Long version or short?”

I shrug again, “The devil is in the detail. You can tell the short version if you want me to get bored and die an unsatisfying death.”

She snorts, maybe close to a laugh, “She was a chem major and I was a finishing my physics degree We used to have our classes in the same building when we were in uni. I would see her all the time around campus and I was just so annoyed. Everywhere I went – she was there she was, with her annoying pink hair and her annoying bubbly personality. Who even has pink hair in such a serious program, at her age, you know? I could hear her annoying laugh echo in my head constantly. I was even having fucking dreams about her,” she brings a hand to her mouth, biting her nails, “I just loved her. Loved the fuck out of that annoying, preppy girl who would never shut up about science. It was insane. We kind of became friends. I figured all the people in my program were either dicks or idiots, I might as well try to have at least one person I didn't want to punch in the throat. We had been talking for a while. I used to wait for her to finish in the lab, she'd always take just forever. Making sure everything was right, you know, perfect or whatever. And she just killed me – with her hair up and that lab coat.”

She looks at me, suddenly defensive, “You're gay right?”

I nod, “Almost excessively lesbian.”

She looks away, shoulders visibly relaxing, “Before I could even process, I told her she beautiful and that was it. She put her arms around my neck and kissed every shadow of a doubt I had ever had in my life, straight out of me. The next months were perfect. Like the type of love movies and books sell. The type of thing you feel like you never truly deserve. How could anyone get so lucky? A person should never become everything. But she did. And so, I had nothing anymore, just her. How could anything compare? Coffee didn't even taste good until she had her lips against her cup and her sleepy eyes on me. Sleep wasn't satisfying unless I woke up with her head on my chest -” She takes in a deep breath, resting her knuckles against her teeth, “Have you – have you ever been in love?”

It's like I'm watching a terribly sad movie in reverse. I've seen the ending, and it's a sick girl staring at the ceiling while she lays on a blanket that serves as her bed. It's a story unfinished, permanently on pause. It's an I love you said to a broken telephone. “I don't think I have. Not really.”

She looks at me and then to the ceiling, “I don't know if that makes you lucky or not. It happened gradually. Insidious. I've looked back so many times, so intensively, trying to understand. You'd expect a less rigorous analysis of the data from a scientist working on a cure for cancer. It started to grow when she became obsessed with a stupid kid's show her roommate watched. I feel so guilty because I encouraged her. I bought her the DVD set for our six months. I started to call her Princess. She kept talking about how it spoke to her. But how – how could I have known? People get into so many things, in such extreme manners. I was just happy she loved something, not school related. But one day, I came to her apartment and that’s when everything went to shit. Or at least, that's when I realized that it had. I took weeks, but I managed to get her to a doctor. You can't even imagine how hard the diagnosis hits you. She – she has a beautiful brain, you know? She is so smart and so good. How could the one thing that makes her, break her as well?”

She looks at me, grief as strongly present in her eyes as admiration.

She puts her hands in the pockets of her coat, fumbling with things hidden from view, “She got better on the medication, eventually. I did my research. I wasn't looking for a cure, I just wanted her to look at me again. To maybe hear me. And of course, one day she stopped taking them. I only realized that once she was gone and found the pills hidden amongst the tea leaves in a container that had always been in full view. I hate myself, for not drinking tea. I've hated myself for a thousand reasons. Some make sense, others not so much. I hate the police for not finding her. I hated her family for not tearing the city into pieces to find her, crying at home instead. I hated her doctor, for not telling me this could happen. At least, not emphasizing it. I found her months later, by pure luck or maybe fate. I don't know. And you know the rest.”

Suddenly, this tall, intimidating girl looks so incredibly small. A lost child in a supermarket. I maintain eye contact, with a steadiness and calmness I only partly feel, “We will get her back to the life she deserves.”

She visibly softens, “I haven't… I haven't talked about this in so long. I had almost forgotten how real it was.” She takes a medication container and hands it to me as if it could burn a hole in her palm, “This is what they gave her. I've been carrying it just in case since she left. And now, I've been carrying it just in case, that by some miracle, she would ask for them. Maybe you'll find a way. Either way, I still have a bottle left.”

We sit in silence for a while. My thoughts are racing in such a fast manner that I can barely hold on to them. Together we make a plan. At least for now, she knows that if she is not there, someone will encourage Bonnie to eat, sleep and do all those things that have become so hard to do. I give her LaF's phone number, promising her to update her the days she can't be here. She gets up to meet Bonnie in the basement, a hint of a smile on her lips. And it makes me think about how maybe some things are too heavy to carry alone.

She turns to look at me, “I still love her, you know. I couldn't give up then, and I don't think I can anymore now.”

Her words feel like stones in my stomach.

 

* * *

 

I bring my mitten-clad hand to the small nurse's scarf, bringing it higher to protect her cheeks from the cold. I frown. What a ridiculous girl. She should know better than to walk only partly protected from the temperature.

She looks down, a small smile hidden in the corners of her lips, “So, you and your roommates are taking turns being with her when her girlfriend is not there?”

I nod, “It's been eventful, to say the least.”

“Who is with her now?”

“Her girlfriend. I made breakfast and ate with her until Perry came back from work. Then Perry did her usual boring activities with her until her girlfriend arrived. Usually, she's better when her girlfriend is there, so she should be okay tonight. Marceline even offered to babysit Mircalla as well.”

I follow her, not knowing where we are going. Nervousness is bubbling up in my stomach. This is the first time I've gone to meet her without a specific reason. She refused when I asked her if I should bring anything – saying only to look “cute”. Most obviously ignoring the fact that to make me look cute would require a week's worth by overqualified individuals. Perry lent me some money, just in case. LaF lent me their black suspenders to go with my button up, claiming that this is what gay girls found cute these days. I have no clue in hell why I agreed. I shove my hands deeper in the pockets of my leather jacket.

She bumps into me with her shoulder, considering her height and size, it is a miracle I even feel it. I look at her with the most glowering look I can manage, but it slips away as she says, “It's really, really, awesome what you're doing to help them both.”

I shrug, “Whatever. It's mostly Perry and LaF.”

“Yeah right. I'll pretend I believe you,” She looks at me a fist raised in the air, her voice attempting to imitate a news anchor or a man with a very horrible voice, “Carmilla – the true hero of this city.”

I roll my eyes, “You're infinitely annoying, you know that right?” The word annoying rings in my ears, an association with a moment I can't place.

She only giggles.

“Probably the most annoying human being on this continent.”

She puts a finger against her lips, “Of course… and that would totally explain why we see each other every single week… Wait – no, actually it doesn't and you're a liar. You secretly think I'm hella rad. The most not annoying person on the planet.”

A grimace settles on my face at her words, “Hella rad? Is that really what the cool, hip young nurses are saying these days?”

“Actually not really, they're mostly talking about shitty working conditions and where to get the cheapest coffee in the hospital.” She raises her eyebrows, “Apparently it's the machine on the 7th floor, but it doesn't sell hot chocolate.”

There is the slightest shade of pink on her nose and cheeks, I can't help but wonder if that mysterious place we are going to is nearby. The last thing she needs is a frost bite.

Her face lights up, “Oh, it's just here!”

I look at the old building, clearly recently restored, and recognize it, in its incredible architectural beauty, immediately. It explains why she wanted to meet me this early, “You're taking me to a Museum?” A kind of humming that I can't explain settles in my gut before turning into the cramping pain of anxiety, “Isn't it really expensive and I'm kind of on a tight -”

She gives me the hugest grin, her nose crinkled in such an innocent and pleased manner. She was obviously expecting my reaction, “I know. Which is why I'm paying and you're going to pretend to be eighty-five to get the senior discount.”

I can only stare at her wide-eyed.

She laughs, “I'm paying. I need to find a purpose for the money I'm making on all the overtime. Anyways, I owe you.”

I pinch my nose, “No you don't, cupcake. You paid back your debt with all the food. I won't come steal your soul in the dead of night.”

She brings her hand to my arm for a slight moment, gaining my attention, “If I didn't have you, probably the only time I'd get out of the house is to work or for two am trips to the drug store for various delicious treats.” She shakes her head, “Anyways, it was my idea. So, I pay.”

I try to contain my relief. I focus on the pink in her cheeks and the way her eyes with the sunlight appears to be more copper than brown. I look away, “Isn't it the job of your skyscraper to take you take you out for walks sometimes?”

She laughs, “For two people who supposedly don't like each other, you sure talk about the other quite a lot. Anyways, she's always working.” She tugs on the lapel of jacket before I can interject, “You're going to love this – you know when we watched that Doctor Who episode when they were in Pompeii and you -”

She is, most definitely, all kinds of annoying. Annoying, because she remembers small comments made late in the evening. Annoying, because she seems to be even more thrilled by showing me the paintings and sculptures than she is looking at them. Annoying, because the broad smile on her lips never really completely leaves and it's twisting my organs into pitiful knots. Walking around, looking at all this art with her, feels like a breath of fresh air. A relief of something I just can't specifically identify. I almost forget that I am sticking out like a black stain on a white canvas. I assume the small nurse doesn't notice, she continues ranting and dragging me to other pieces. An older woman has been glaring at me, with disgust so intense I can barely understand. I try to drive her away from that woman gracefully, but she ignores me, staying stubbornly in front of the painting. I stare at my beat up boots, my patched up pants. Maybe the woman is right to be offended. Maybe I truly don't belong here. When I look up at the nurse, I'm shocked to see her glaring at the same woman. My mouth opens, dumbfounded. This is the first time I've seen true hostility coming from the nurse.

My voice is small, a warning, “Cutie, we -”

She cuts me off, her smile is so big is seems comical, “I'm sorry to tell you this, Carm, but it appears someone forgot a rectal tube in that woman in the corner,” I can't help but laugh, she puts her hand on my now heated cheek, “And it's in so deeply, any minute now she will cough it out. It's not going to be pretty, Carm. She is going to ruin paintings and the sanity of a lot of people in this room -”

The nickname and the proximity are sending shivers down my spine and through oversensitive nerves. I can feel her breath on my lips and I never thought something so simple could feel this sweet. My face probably looks as blank as my mind does, currently filled with white noise and dopamine.

She reaches out and holds my hand, swaying it slightly between us. My heart is beating so strongly and rapidly in my chest, I feel it's song in my ears, the foreign warmth on my neck and cheeks. The smile she's giving me, the soft look in her eyes, it feels like it could be enough to forgive an existence worth of failures. I see her lips move before I hear the sound of, “Or at least, I'm guessing that's why she's looking at us like we purposely stepped on a crying baby.”

I try to swallow back all those involuntary responses, “She's staring at me, cutie. Definitely not you and your – well, creative plaid dress and cardigan.”

She doesn't frown, but I can almost see the frustration her eyes, “Shut it and put your hand in my hair.”

“What the fuck, Hollis.”

She whispers in a hushed tone, “Just do it or she will win.”

I hesitantly rest my hand on the back of her neck, trying so desperately to ignore the softness surrounding my hand. Trying so hard to pretend this is not intimacy. This is not affection. That I couldn't just, so easily, bring her closer to me. What makes it easier, is that this is impossible. What girl in the right state of mind would want anything resembling intimacy with the kind of girl I am.

Again, there's a slight pink coloring her cheeks, “Yes! She left with her bad attitude and probably shitty life. A point for the lesbians,” She quickly backs away from me and puts her other hand up, I halfheartedly give her a high five, “What a rude lady.”

I roll my eyes, “How almost foolishly courageous you are.”

She tugs on our still linked hands, almost like she is dragging me on to some fantastical adventure, “Common, let's go see the rest.” And I'm following like a lost puppy. Humiliating.

 

* * *

 

It is when my stomach is full and I've finished my second soda that I realize my serious lack of sleep. Between staying with Bonnie and making my way to the nurse's house, I missed what is usually my typical hours of sleep. I'm trying not to count the hours since I've last slept, knowing it will only worsen the burning in my eyes and this drowsiness in my mind. It's easy, not to give in to the urge to sleep, with my eyes on the short girl, practically humming from satisfaction. I take such comfort in the mundane things she does. The swift movement of her hands, the way she brushes her hair back with the fluid motion of her hand, the fluctuation tone of her voice as she speaks. I indulge in the vibration of her laugh which seems to dance between the walls, in the way her eyes always attempt to seek mine regardless of the situation, in the way she constantly questions me, as if there is space that is meant only for my voice to fill.

Her forehead is furrowed, “Are you sure you're full? Because you're looking at me like you're suddenly very into cannibalism.”

With all my might, I try to keep the blush from appearing on my cheeks, “Is that an offer, creampuff?”

Her mouth opens and closes, she pats down nonexistent creases in her dress, “Well, I mean, I do have some leftover apple pie?”

I'm surprised of how effortlessly the sultry tone settles in my voice, “Well, in that case, I'm definitely full.”

I feel a certain pride, knowing I haven't lost all my appeal judging on her flushed cheeks and the corner of her lip tucked between her teeth, “Well- that's really… that's good then,” Her chest swells as she inhales deeply, “Wait a minute, I have something for you.” She basically runs towards her bedroom.

She comes back with her hands full, blankets and other things almost spilling out of her arms, “Are we going to make a fort like preschool children?”

Her eyes light up, “No, but that's such a really good idea. Don't even pretend to be cool and uber mature, like you wouldn't love making a fort. I haven't made a fort in so long – anyways that's beside the point. I went through my old nursing textbooks and I found this one on mental health. I remembered that it was actually really good, like clear interventions and all that.” She hands it towards me.

“Oh.” My thumb rubs the book as I attempt to express how good it feels that I still exist for her even if I am not present. Out of our routine.

And she's back with the twitchy hand movements and rapid speech, “I know it's not like the type of textbooks you probably have, but it's really focused on like, the approach and all that. In nursing, it's all about the talking and the attitude and,” she makes quotes in the air with her fingers, “the therapeutic relationship and all that. I figured you might, well, use something from it. For Bonnie and Marceline.”

It feels like my heart could climb out my throat and onto her textbook, I try to swallow it down regardless of how impossible that physiologically is, “That's – thank you.”

She practically beams, “Welcome. Maybe when she is better we can have like a double date to celebrate or something with lots of pastries.”

I'm sitting on her sofa, the book in my hands, completely slack-jawed, “You know that they are, well, girlfriends as in dating?”

She suddenly realizes the meaning of her words and shakes her head, “Yeah, I mean we could have this like totally friend hang out thing.”

In another life, she is my neighbor. The typical girl next door you can't help but become stupidly, unreasonably infatuated with. Or maybe, a girl met at a party who is able to make the loud sounds of the room fall to a dull hum with the way she greets me. Maybe she is a random girl on a bus who makes me realize just how I alive I am when her eyes meet mine. In another life, I can convince her that I am the one she should have against her, with as much confidence as certainty. In another life, maybe I'm someone that is not so irreparably damaged and capable of giving her the type of love she wants to tell strangers about. But it seems, once again, the mind ignores reason. Perhaps, maybe voluntarily dismisses it, because my eyes rest on the side of her face as she looks at the closed television. I take in the way the muscles curl, pull and contract as she tilts her head to the side, like young grapevines. By now they are as familiar to me as the lines in my palms. I understand the way she bites her lower lip, knowing, without doubt, that it is to keep a smile from becoming evident. This longing, this aching, this knowledge of how precious she is, has become a part of my anatomy in a way that I cannot fully understand. In my mind, I see my ribs branching out to protect fragile organs and the muscles holding my bones together. I see the collection of arteries and veins, right down to the smallest of capillaries and her. So deeply embedded in this mess. Infinitely unexpected and as equally paralyzing. It doesn't mean anything because it can't. I repeat it in my head until even the stubbornest parts of my mind can accept it.

She puts her hand on my thigh, hitting it excitedly, “I can't believe I haven't told you already – I've started making vlogs!”

I raise an eyebrow, “What now?”

Her face lights up, “Yeah! Like videos. I've been doing it the traditional way, writing in a journal, since like prehistoric times. But the other day I was just messing around on youtube and I realized that's what I wanted to do – it would be easier and I always feel like my hand isn't fast enough to keep up with what I want to say.”

She's looking at me, almost like she wants my approval or encouragement, and so I give it to her. Because it is such an easy thing to do, “That's … a good idea. Put it online, maybe you'll get fan girls who like your annoying voice will want to buy your old scrubs and stalk you in public.”

She raises her eyebrows as if contemplating it, “Well, it would put those old scrubs to good use. And my voice is not annoy-”

I bring a hand under my chin, looking away as if deep in thought, “Maybe you can get your own t-shirts with the impressively odd face you make before you sneeze on it.”

She opens her mouth, “Hey! That's not -”

I shrug, “I bet Xena would wear it, like constantly.”

“And that wouldn't be awkward at all.”

“She would probably kiss it -”

She laughs as throws the yellow pillow at me, “Okay so this stops now before it gets too weird.”

I roll my eyes. It's getting harder to pretend that she doesn't profoundly entertain me. For a small moment, with the only the light of the television illuminating the small nurse, I can pretend. I pretend that this is my life. I entertain the possibility of happiness, affection and stability. I picture her fingers threading with mine once again, but with sincerity. I try to imagine until guilt brings me back home again. Until my throat burns with regret, for desiring more than a generosity I have never known and am not sure I deserve. A filled stomach, shelter, and warmth, it seems, brings not only satisfaction but hunger. In a way that is more than physiological. An apology sits on my tongue, almost spilling from my mouth, for a girl who wouldn't understand its premise.

I am filled a sense of calm I rarely experience when I wake up. I can hear the television playing in the background, much softer than it was before. I can barely hear the words but recognize it instantly. I feel a hand running softly through my hair and it almost sends me back to my dreamless sleep. But my lungs are filled with wild flowers and freshly baked vanilla cupcakes and Laura. Just Laura. Her thigh is warm and soft under my cheek. I regulate my breathing, pretending to still be asleep. And maybe, the guilt caused by this indulgence will eat me alive. Maybe I won't ever be able to appreciate the small moments in my life that are okay again. Because she is warmth and safety and entirely surprising. My heart doesn't race at the thought of our proximity this time. Instead, it slows as if trying to become so small and irrelevant that I can melt into the pores of her skin and not have to worry about existing anymore.

I realize the cause of my awakening when I hear her roommate, “Laura.”

“Shush, not so loud Danny. I think she's not getting much sleep. She has the same dark -”

“What are you even doing? Have you even thought about the intensity of this whole situation?”

I can almost hear the small nurse roll her eyes, the attitude in her voice is something I am almost proud of, “What situation? That I'm making friends, other than acquaintances at work? Heck, you should try it.”

Xena seems to shuffle her feet, almost nervously, “You don't have to be a dick about it, you know. I'm just worried okay, the whole situation is really -”

The nurse sighs, “There is totally nothing to worry about. It's not like I'm recapping a used syringe or drawing blood without gloves. She is respectful and thoughtful and sweet like… like a little kitten – and gosh, she's a med student.”

The other one snorts, “Yeah, sweet and thoughtful in a Sex Pistols meets Charles Manson type of way.”

Her hand continues to run through my hair, surprisingly free from knots. It's helping me soothe both the anger and the shame building in my chest. I am not a fool, I know that the tall girl is right. That this is not my place to take. Because I am not thoughtful nor sweet. I just cannot comprehend this girl's complete lack of understanding of danger. I do not understand how she does not see it. See me, as I undoubtedly am.

I hear Xena sigh, giving in because it is impossible not to give into such a hardheaded, persistent girl, “Medicine? Well, that explains her shitty attitude.”

The comment, coming from her and not accompanied with the teasing tone the small nerd uses, rubs me the wrong way. I know pretending to wake up or telling her to fuck off will simply prove all that she's imagined me to be. I decide to do something that will make her angrier instead. I bring a sleepy arm around the small girl's stomach, holding her almost possessively. I bring my face closer to her stomach until my nose rubs against the soft fabric of her dress.

I feel hands moving, “See? She's harmless. She's a good, normal person. You'd know that if you, at least, tried to get to know her.”

“Whatever, Laura. If you need to talk, I'm still here, you know.”

The nurse goes back to watching Grey's Anatomy and I try to understand what makes someone good. I try to understand why this girl would defend the person she thinks I am. It's hard to understand, how two people who were raised together, can have such differing opinions about the same thing. I am not quite sure which opinion I believe. But for this moment, it doesn't seem to matter, as the steady breathing of the nurse lulls me back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the Queen of posting obscenely late at night (or excruciatingly early in the morning) is back with this little chapter. I hope you had happy holidays with limited anxiety and rude comments from family members. Again and again, thank you for the comments. They seriously make my life 160% better. Please let me know what you think, as I'd really love to have someone to talk about this silly story with! Hope you enjoy.
> 
> (Also a special shout out to all those working in health care that are reading this story - I know there is at least one and I think thats ultra very cool)


	12. Chapter 12

My yoga mat is surprisingly comfortable this morning. I turn my head, almost drifting back to sleep when I smell the delicious odor of cooked food. I jerk out up so suddenly and with such speed, my head spins. I attempt to rub the sleep out of my eyes. I notice the yellow pillow that was under my head, the sun rays greeting the small window of the nurse's apartment. Before I can acknowledge the feeling of guilt and uncertainty, the short girl appears.

 

She is wearing that same Doctor Who apron, “Gosh, she's alive. I was wondering if I should start performing CPR.”

 

I get up, placing the blanket on the sofa, “If that is your nerdy way of saying you want your hands on my chest, you need to work on your wooing.”

 

She looks at me, offended, “That is not – my wooing is very good, exceptional as a matter a fact, thank you very much.”

 

I take in her obnoxious flowery dress and the smudge of flour on her forehead, “Well don't you look like a fifties housewife.”

 

She laughs, “And don't you look like someone who just got ditched by their date at prom.”

 

I look down at the suspenders hanging at my side and my blouse sticking out of my pants. I put the suspenders back on my shoulders, rolling my sleeves as I walk slowly towards her. Her geeky mug is on the counter and I take a sip of whatever it contains. She looks at me, suspicious, eyes just so bright.

 

I humor her, “Well, miss, my date has left me and I asked all the pretty girls to dance,” I point at the dirty dishes in the sink and the garbage, “and they have all refused. I was wondering if you could let me have the next dance.”

 

She wipes the grin right off my face with the most horrible imitation of a southern accent I have ever heard, “Good lord! You're barking up the wrong tree because as,” She snaps the strap of LaF's suspenders, “Handsome as you are, I don't know nothin' about dancing.”

 

I almost can't help the deep tone of voice that comes instinctively out my mouth, “I can definitely show you.” I can't help but look at her partly opened mouth, the way she brings her lower lip between her teeth.

 

Her smile this close almost knocks all the air out of my lungs, “I reckon you could.”

 

I am almost glad of this role reversal once I see the shocked look on her face when I interlace her fingers with mine as she turns away, “Partners are usually face to face,” I bring my hand to the small of her back, pulling her towards me, “Chest to chest,” I spin her once, her carefree laugh seeming to imprint itself in my mind, “And of course, cupcake, there's a lot of all that – whirling.” I'm suddenly infinitely thankful for Mother's formal events that required such dancing.

 

She mumbles something under her breath.

 

“What?”

 

She shakes her head, a slight color to her cheeks, “Never mind. Considering your probably very high IQ, I don't really understand how you can keep forgetting my name.”

 

I roll my eyes, “I remember your name.”

 

She raises an eyebrow, challenging me, “It's Laura. You won't end up bursting into flames or pregnant with my child just because you say my name, cutie pie, sweetheart, warm sugar pies and other edible things.”

 

Of course, I know that spontaneous combustion would not occur if I addressed her using that five letter name. But it would make it worse. It is so incredibly difficult to remind my brain that images of her are not mine to hold on to. That it is not right that my mind cradles the memories of how her features bloom as she laughs before I fall asleep. The thoughts corrupt my thinking and my actions and I cannot deny how deeply wrong I feel for carrying them. Perhaps, I had forgotten what it was to want, to desire. Slowly and gradually, somewhere along the way you start believing, understanding, that you do not deserve it. _To get anywhere in life, Carmilla, you need to work for it. You think I acquired all I have today by mere chance? Because I asked for it with a pretty please? That is the exact idiotic process of thinking that will lead you nowhere. It seems I was wrong to believe you would accomplish greatness as you are most evidently mocking me with your pathetic and indolent work._ I see my Mother's face with greater quality than I do the nurse's, barely inches away from my face. I focus on her breathing, the slight movement of her back against my hand.

 

I quickly let go of her hand, desperate for distance.

 

She plays with her hands nervously like a child trying to lie, “So, what are you doing today, other than cruelly trying to avoid saying my name?”

 

It is then that it comes to me like a baseball bat swung into my stomach. I was supposed to babysit Bonnie last night. LaF needed to get some unspecified work done and Perry needed to sleep before her long work day. My breathing accelerates and fails me. I feel myself slipping away, but I realize where I am. I force the air slowly into my barely responding lungs, I count the flowers on the nurse's dress, “I need to go.”

 

She looks me up and down, confused, “What? Why? I made blueberry pancakes.”

 

I turn around looking for my bag, “I was supposed to stay with Bonnie last night. I wasn't supposed to-”

 

She stops my every movement with the simple pressure of her hand on my arm, “It's okay Carm. She's going to be okay. It's not like you haven't left her alone before. Either way, by now what's a few minutes more going to change? You're only going to come back, well-rest and with my world famous food boosting your cognitive functions.”

 

“I guess you're right.” I feel my body softening under her touch, grounding me.

 

“Darn right, I am.”

 

She already has a steaming mug of black coffee at the place where I usually sit. There is a pile of pancakes in the middle of the table, so tall I can't help but wonder if other people are going to be joining us. Two and a half football teams, perhaps. By the end of the meal, I feel like my ribs could crack open by the sheer fullness in my stomach.

 

I take my plate and the nurse's putting it next to the sink, “One of these days, I will cook for you. To pay back for all this,” I finish off my coffee, “And by that I mean I will buy food and pretend I've baked it myself.”

 

She shakes her head, “It's alright, Carmilla. I've repeated it like, a thousand times. Either way, I like cooking for y- well, other people. Cooking for one is like major sad.”

 

I nod before making my way to my backpack. I fumble with the only shoulder strap remaining as she makes her way towards me, “That's my cue to leave before we end talking about our emotions and all that nursing stuff you probably eat for breakfast.”

 

She gives me the cheekiest grin, “You know, we did have a sleepover. You can't lie about how much you appreciate my company anymore.”

 

That much I have already realized, “The only logical explanation for that is that you probably slipped sleeping pills in my drink, cutie.”

 

She gets closer to me, so impossibly close that it renders me paralyzed. She stands on her toes, and I wonder how many have been lucky enough to see her this close. The creases in her cheeks that surround her smile, the most delicate, almost not perceivable raise of her eyebrows, the way her eyelashes shine against her skin like the last rays of gold before a solar eclipse. Her breath is on my cheek and against my neck and it ripples and resonates the totality of my atoms, “It's Laura.”

 

Of course it is, cutie.

 

* * *

 

“Mircalla, Callarim, Carmaill, Arcallmi, Carmilla, it's is all one. One is small but it is a whole. A whole is complete but a hole is not.”

 

I hear Marceline sigh, “The cat isn't Carmilla. People can't change into animals, babe.”

 

“She sees all so she understands all. To understand you have to be smart and to be smart you have to go to class and I need to go back. Sack, tack, lack -”

 

I make my way downstairs, I see the way the taller girl holds Bonnie's hand almost desperately against her chest, “You are the smartest person I know. But to go back to school, you need to be healthy. To be healthy, you need to take your medication.”

 

She shakes her head violently, a hurricane of pink hair surrounding her, “Medication breaks the hands and the bed and the head. The kingdom cries and but angry.”

 

I sit down next to Marceline, the fatigue etched on her face only adds to the culpability gnawing at me, “I apologize, for not coming back last night I -”

 

She shakes her head, shrugging her shoulders, “There’s no apology needed. I get it. You got to be with your girl, in a warm bed.”

 

My chest is aching, I just do not want to remember why, “She is not my girl -”

 

She raises her eyebrow, so typically, “Yeah okay, if denial is your thing, go all out.”

 

I simply ignore her, “How was it?”

 

“Could have been better, could have been worse. I got red curls some ear plugs so she managed to get some sleep. Enough to make me regret giving them to her, by the intensity of her morning cheerfulness.”

 

I snort, “That's Perry in a nutshell.” I take out some cookies wrapped in a napkin. I had told the nurse I would eat them later, so perhaps this doesn't count as stealing. I offer one to Bonnie and then Marceline. Bonnie holds it in her hands, mumbling nonsensically, but doesn't eat it. Her girlfriend gives me the smallest smile, perhaps the only type I will ever get out of her, “Did you two have breakfast this morning? Did you manage to go to your apartment last night?” Of course, these questions are not aimed at the dark-haired girl. The least I can do is not ignore that Bonnie is still present, although the extent of her disorganization limits her understanding.

 

Marceline's fingers rub slowly against the other girl's leg, “Manged to eat a bit. I can't get her – we can't go back to the apartment. Every time I offer, she just blanks out. Refuses to follow me. And for the medication,” she bites the inside of her cheek, “We're still at square one. I can't mention it without her getting agitated.”

 

I try to not let her distress seep into me, “The nurse lent me some books on mental disorders. She said they were really good. Perhaps we will find something useful, to help us.”

 

No matter how weakly, hope seems to hold on to her. I feel like I can breathe easier with its presence back in her eyes, “Shit, that's good news. Maybe we'll find something we haven't tried yet,” she looks at Bonnie, poking her nose, “And you can go back to sleeping in my huge, warm and soft bed, instead of this – well – beautiful disaster of a land.”

 

Bonnie's face remains neutral as if no other living human being exists on this planet.

 

Marceline turns to me, “What's her name anyway? Your girl?”

 

I roll my eyes, annoyed at seeing the nurse's cocky grin in my mind, “ _Laura._ Laura Hollis.”

 

* * *

 

I bring my hand around my wrist, trying to massage the ache out of my muscles. This marks yet another time that I miss that trusty, old and used laptop that I used to own. The pile of notes, sitting neatly on the table seems to soothe my aching hand considerably. The tiny nerd was right, the textbook was quite helpful. With her book, a few others and a small research on the computers available in the library I was able to create a sort of document that might significantly help Bonnie and her girlfriend. I look at LaF, still focused on a textbook in front of them.

 

I cannot help the curiosity, “Why are you even reading a book on computers? Are you planning to hack our wonderful government?”

 

They snort, “A two-year old could probably do that. I actually fix or hack computers for extra money.”

 

“Really or are you just fucking with me?”

 

They close the book, “As much as messing with you has become one of my favorite activities – no. I kept seeing ads on the web, saw how much those people were getting paid for very simple stuff. So I taught myself and Perry, well, invested in some equipment for me. I didn't think I'd get much business but turns out it's going pretty well. I got the cell phone mainly for that.” They look at me quizzically, as if wondering if I was speaking to them, “I think Laura must have messed with your brain circuits. In all this time we've known each other, you've never asked me anything remotely personal.”

 

I run a hand through my messy curls, “You better not start getting sentimental with me because I might just -”

 

They roll their eyes and wave their hand dismissively, “Yeah yeah, you'll vomit on my clothes or punch me in the crotch, whatever. I'm just saying. She's good for you, you know?”

 

I run my finger against a dent in the table, shaking my head, not able to look at them in the eye, “I don't think so.”

 

“Why the fuck not?”

 

I look at them, wishing I could believe in a fairytale that exists only in the quiet hope that has started to live in my chest and the ignorance of others, “It cannot end well. You know that. How could this whole situation amount to anything good?”

 

Their brows are furrowed, a grimace on their face, “Are you sincerely that pessimistic? Good things do happen, Carmilla.”

 

I shrug, “I know that. I am thankful for the good things. Thankful that she feeds Mircalla when I come over, that she wants my presence once a week. I know that being in the warmth of an apartment, being welcomed, isn't something I would have imagined I would have a year ago. But with that much good,” I will myself not to say happiness, “It simply cannot end well. It is basic homeostasis.”

 

They look up at the ceiling, “If you want to talk about homeostasis, then we will.” They look at me with an intensity usually reserved for when they are creating something or looking at Perry, “We have lived shitty, shitty lives. I don't know know exactly what happened in yours, but I know it's probably pretty close to mine. And my life, up to the point I became homeless, was pathetic stimulation of what living should be. I had known nothing but hate and violence and discrimination. I have suffered at the hands of the people who society promises will give you unconditional love. I've caused myself so much pain because I had a life full of experiences that manipulated me into thinking that it was what I should do. I didn't even think I was lovable until I met Perry. And then, after all that shit, I ended up on the streets, knowing even less what a home is. You know how it is. I've lived fear, starvation and that never fucking ending cold,” They bring a fist to their chest, the hit echoing in the quiet library and in my bones, “Where is that goddamned homeostasis? I could find a million dollars on the ground tomorrow and it still wouldn't be equal. It still wouldn't be fucking fair.”

 

My breath is stuck in my throat and my jaw clenched so tightly it's a wonder I can open it to say, “I am sorry, really.” Sorry that I know their pain so intimately. Sorry that I cannot paint over the constant sense of dread that covers my being with pretty colors, smiles, and jokes. A carefully crafted cheerfulness. Sorry, that we are and how difficult it is to be. So, incredibly sorry, that all I can offer them is a petty word that has lost all meaning and impact.

 

I feel their hand gripping my own tightly before I look up at them, “No. You don't get to be sorry. You shouldn't be sorry when there is a world full of people who should but aren't. All we are trying to do is live. In my book, it means anything we do, to be able to do that, is justified. Whether it is eating from a garbage bin or kissing girls we are so certain we don't deserve.”

 

In the smallest of ways, it soothes the part of me that hates my existence, “Okay. Perhaps you are right.” I cannot bring myself to tell them how much I am willing to sacrifice so that they achieve a happiness that was promised.

 

* * *

 

 

The end of the week is rapidly approaching, it is only then that I realize the nurse has not contacted me for our usual Friday meeting. I cannot help but fear that my bold actions on that morning have maybe caused her to ignore me. To flee, maybe. It feels heavy. But I have a warm pizzas boxes in my arms, from Rico's Pizza place and I try to remind myself that this is a good thing. That I should feel happy for this gift. For the way the owner almost raced to the girl behind the counter, making her jump in surprise when he told her that anything I purchased was on the house. That I was a very good friend of the family. I should be thankful for the way he refused my money so stubbornly. I look at his messy handwriting on the box, Lactose free 4 Carmilla with a smiley face, and a tight smile cannot help but to grow on my lips.

 

I sit on my mat, sliding a box to towards LaF and Perry. Mircalla shakes the snow out of her fur before laying down on my warm pizza box.

 

“Oh my, Carmilla. That is so kind of you. Here let me pay -”

 

“I don't want your money, Perry. Consider it part of a payment for all the baked treats you give us.”

 

She gets a pile of festive looking napkins, giving me a small pile before returning to LaF, “I am simply ecstatic. I have been wanting Hawaiian pizza for months.” She bites down on a slice after she has opened a napkin on her lap. I share a look with LaF, giving them a small smile in exchange for their broad one. Knowing obviously, with how I have previously stated my disgust for warm pineapple pieces, that I got this one for them.

 

I walk towards Bonnie, in her spot on the other side of the room, kneeling down, “Come eat with us. Once your girlfriend arrives we'll have a pizza party.” I take the pink cushion she usually likes to sit on in my arms.

 

Her eyes are shifting between different spots around my head, “Good stuff! My stomach was going babies.”

 

I raise my eyebrows, “Well, then. I have food and grape soda. Just make sure to leave Marceline a slice or two. She is supposed to arrive soon.”

 

When Marceline arrives we sitting together, in a deformed circle like a very odd family dinner. Bonnie has eaten her second slice and the act of eating has her silent and free of disorganized speech.

 

She nods in the direction of the redheads, “Children,” She kisses the top of her girlfriend's head, “Babe,” she sits next to her before looking at me, “Karnstein.”

 

“Vampire Queen,” I point at Bonnie's pizza, “Feel free to take some before your girlfriend gains twenty pounds.”

 

She laughs, I know it's mostly because she is relieved to see her eating. She takes a slice before talking softly to Bonnie.

 

I look at Perry, “How was work with your the living artifacts?”

 

She takes a sip of the soda, “Gosh, it started rather intensely – the first apartment I clean is for this woman who is rather frail. And oh my, I would have been happy to have you or LaFontaine with me, regardless of your, well, messy behaviors. I came in, and Ms. Badeau was on the sofa, half falling off, mumbling incomprehensibly and all shaky. So, obviously, I called Laura -”

 

My mouth opens dumbly, “You _what_?”

 

She nods, “I called Laura, you know, your nurse, and she -”

 

“What? Why?”

 

She tilts her head to the side, “Well, because she is a nurse, obviously. She told me to call her anytime I needed – if my clients were unwell or such. She helped me as well a few weeks back, when I didn't know what to do with this wound Ms. Proux had that just wouldn't heal. Anyways, turns out she was simply – what did she say it was? You know, with diabetes? With the low sugar?”

 

“Hypoglycemia.”

 

Her eyes widen in recognition, “Yes, right, Hypoglycemia. One tablespoon of sugar and she was back to normal,” She looks at me, pointing a finger almost menacingly, “You better be kind to her, Carmilla. She is really just so nice. She stayed on the phone with me until Ms. Badeau got better.”

 

I try to exhale the disappointment I feel, now knowing that the nurse is purposefully avoiding me, “Yeah. I will.”

 

She smiles, “Good. She even told me she would send some mock meatloaf back with you Friday, for LaFontaine and I. Which is great because it's the type of recipe I wou-”

 

“This Friday?”

 

“Well yes – during typical Friday date.”

 

A part of me is so incredibly relieved and soothed I can't help but feel terrified at the feeling, “She… she did not call me. I thought that she was possibly too busy to see me this week.”

 

Her face softens, “Oh, Carmilla. I think she just assumed you would just come over, like all the other weeks. Or that I would pass on the message?”

 

Marceline hits my arm, grinning from ear to ear, “Well, well, look at little miss romantic comedy. I'll try not to laugh the next time you correct me for calling her your girlfriend.”

 

“Fuck you.”

 

Her laugh fills the room. The smile Bonnie gives at the sound is so innocent and sincere, for a moment, it is all I can focus on. A few hours later, once Bonnie is laying on her bed, as calmly as it is possible for her, I go over my notes with Marceline. I am both surprised and encouraged by how easily she remembers the facts I have spread out on the scrap pieces of paper in front of us.

 

I bring my hand to my mouth, contemplating the information, “I am, of course, not a specialist in psychiatry. And I couldn't be, simply because I've read twice your weight in textbooks and articles about schizophrenia. With that being said, I think we've been going at this all wrong. Well, I think we've been asking the wrong questions. Firstly, we need to know if Bonnie has impaired insight. It is a pathological effect of the disease. Some people have it, and some don't. That answer may or may not help us determine the cause of her non-compliance to the medication regimen. You told me she was diagnosed and that after a period of time, she seemed to get better. Did she ever verbalize or talk about the illness? Did she attribute the symptoms caused by the illness to another cause?”

 

Her eyes are unfocused, looking at a distance, “Even when she was sick, she trusted her doctor. They seemed to have a good relationship. I think she trusted her when she told her she was sick.”

 

“But did she ever talk about why she was taking the medication?”

 

She nods, “Yeah, because she was sick. And she wanted to go back to school as soon as possible.”

 

The sigh of relief that escapes me surprises her, “That's really good. Great. It means there must be a reason why she stopped talking them. There could be a multitude of reasons. The most common ones, you can easily work with. So, if you agree, I think that should be our goal. Try to talk to her, see why she stopped. Try to remember anything she could have said about medication that might have impaired or annoyed her in any way possible.”

 

She holds up her fist, “We are one step closer than we were a day ago. Good stuff.”

 

I bring my fist to hers awkwardly, “Either way, what is evident now, is that you hold the most influential power in Bonnie's life. Considering you were her girlfriend before -”

 

She glares at me, “I am still her girlfriend, you dick.”

 

I roll my eyes, “And that she still seems to consider you as such, assface.”

 

She looks back at her now sleeping girlfriend before taking out a chocolate bar and splitting it in half. As she gives me the extra half, I almost feel like it is going to be okay.

 

* * *

 

From my current set up, you would assume that the nurse believes that I am a child. She left almost as soon as I arrived, saying we were getting take-outs tonight. Even refused when I proposed to come with her, saying it was going to be a surprise. I can hardly believe she would leave me in her apartment, alone. Mircalla fell asleep on the sofa nearly a second after she finished her bowl of food. The tall red nuisance usually works on Fridays, and for that, I am extremely grateful. Perhaps grateful that she cannot see me in this state. See how the nurse covered me with a blanket, shoved the yellow pillow in my arms and basically chose the show I was going to watch while she was away. The information I know about the show is limited to the small dork's question, _how do you feel about vintage lesbians?_ Whatever that may mean.

 

By the time the episode is done, I am almost screaming at the television screen, “If I see one more woman giving birth I swear to god-”

 

I turn around once the door opens, hoping to see both the small nurse and food. Instead, I curse my bad karma. Xena walks in the apartment, glaring at me. If she is that unpleasant before a shift, I can hardly imagine afterwards. I turn back to the television, trying to ignore she is here at all. She makes her way to the kitchen, her gray uniform wrinkled and her pockets seeming full. I can't help the hyper vigilance, the way I watch her from the corner of my eye. Thinking she might just grab me by the hair and throw me out. I try to concentrate on the television. It is the sound of the glass dropped on the counter that makes me turn in her direction. I almost congratulate her on her impressive clumsiness, until I see her face. A heart sinks, just so quickly, when you see that familiar face on a stranger.

 

I make my way, slowly towards her. I can see her shallow, rapid breathing. I can see tiny beads of sweat forming on her arms, her clenched fists shaking. My voice is low and calm, “Is this the first time this has happened to you?”

 

She shakes her head.

 

I nod, “Okay then, do you want to sit down?”

 

She lets herself drop on the floor, leaning against the kitchen counter.

 

I look at her, her unfocused eyes seeming to belong to someone else, “You're going to be okay, Lawrence. I'm going to count, and you're going to try to follow with your breathing.”

 

After a few minutes, when she seems to regulate her breathing on her own, I ask her, “What do you need?”

 

“Tea. Lavender box.”

 

I start the machine I have seen the nurse use too many times to make hot chocolate, “You want to try something? It's something a friend of mine used when – tell me three things you can smell?”

 

She finally looks at me, “The soap you use – made for men probably, I smell like hand sanitizer and… the cookies Laura cooked earlier.” The words are cut by her breathing and stuttered, but the twitch of a smile appears once she says the tiny nurse's name.

 

We continue like this for what feels like an eternity. I feel her slowly returning to herself.

 

“Do you want to watch that horrible show that your tiny roommate is making me watch?”

 

She snorts, “I can't believe she convinced you to watch that.”

 

Once we are on the couch, I suddenly cannot believe that I'm about to watch a show in which many women give birth with her.

 

She breaks the silence, “I haven't had one since I was twenty. Laura used to help me through them. She used to hug me until it ended. The pressure helped, you know, reminding me that I was not dying”

 

“She is good, with things like that, I assume.”

 

She nods, “Yeah. She is. I know we're probably biologically made to not appreciate one another but thanks for this, Morticia.”

 

And things are back to normal, “Welcome, Clifford.”

 

She runs a hand through her hair, “I guess I should thank you, for being there for Laura on Fridays as well. I'm not heartless, I used to make sure to have the day off. But, well, I realized I was making things worse. As much as I was basically raised by Laura's parents, and as much as we are alike for certain things, Laura and I deal with things in a very different manner.”

 

I shrug, not completely understanding, “It's not like it is not enjoyable for me. I get home cooked meals and Netflix.”

 

She looks at me, her head tilted slightly to the side, “Wow. You really don't know much about her, do you?”

 

Of course, I understand that as soon as she says the words out loud. I know her in bits and pieces and small moments. I know her in the same way you see the colors in the painting but cannot understand the brush strokes that created them. I know her, just as much as you can know a stranger you frequently see. But the way she says the words, I can almost hear the weight of my ignorance, dropping like weights on the wooden floor. Something just so difficult to ignore. I cannot manage to find something to say.

 

She laughs bitterly, without humor, “Well – that's Laura for you. It's not your fault, really. You know, people like us have an advantage of sorts, ironically. We won't break ourselves into pieces trying to make other people comfortable by hiding how we really feel about something. But people like Laura? They'll push themselves to be the brightest, happiest person in a room, just to make sure that no one can even guess how badly they feel. Maybe they even try to hide it from themselves, I don't know. You always have to be careful with people who smile just a little too wide, or laugh just a little too loud. Because they are usually compensating for something.”

 

I cannot look at her. I face the television once again, trying to ignore the heaviness in my gut. I can see the nurse alone, trying to put a smile on a face that only wants to break down. I see the scars haunting her, in the same manner I carry mine. Chronic wounds, from moments that have long expired. I understand why that pain seeps under my skin because it is the same reason why her voice resonates in my ears. It is the same reason I worry about her, regardless of the fact that she has a roof, a job and enough money to feed herself. Why her name sounds like a prayer to gods I have offended and refused.

 

She snorts, “Laura might not see it because she is the most fucking blind girl on earth, but that crush you have is almost disgusting. Like seriously, I know thirst when I see it and you are a blink away from hypovolemic shock.”

 

The door opens, and she comes in with her rosy cheeks and wide smile, “I'm back! I bet you were crying because you missed me- what the frilly hell is this?”

 

The red giant looks away and if I didn't know better I would assume that she is embarrassed. I shrug, “I can't help the way girls just gravitate towards me, cupcake.”

 

Red hits my arm, making retching sounds.

 

The nurse points a finger at her, “You better not be trying to steal my – well, my friend. Make your own friends, Danny Lawrence.”

 

She gets up, “Trust me this punk rock mistake is all yours.”

 

The small nurse smiles and hands her a take out box, “You can eat with us if you want.”

 

The tall one sticks her tongue out, “Thanks but no thanks. I have work to do, so I'll be in my room. Are we still good for tomorrow?”

 

She nods, “Yep.”

 

Once Xena is gone, she turns to me, “I got you vegetarian burritos!”

 

The smile she's wearing seems more to belong to a six-year-old child at a birthday party than a twenty-something oncological nurse. It burns and it soothes, “Why in hell did you make me watch this show about vaginas?”

 

She laughs, “Well if you choose to watch something else it's not my fault.”

 

I frown at her, “I have seen enough newborns to last a lifetime.”

 

She shakes her head, “It grows on you. And like I said, vintage lesbians.”

 

“I did not see any lesbians, vintage or otherwise.”

 

“Stop being a baby, Carm, they come eventually.”

 

I snort, “They better come after all this perinatal nonsense.”

 

She laughs and I wonder how her voice can still sound so annoying and yet be so harmonic. She refuses once again the money I offer, to pay for the food. In exchange, I give her a long monologue on how good the food is. She forces me to finish watching the show. Somewhere along my sarcastic comments and mockery, maybe I do start to feel fondness for certain characters. From her knowing grin, I know she can see it. I can only hope that she is blind to the fondness I bear for her, as well.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh gosh, the comments! The kudos! The coMMENTS! Seriously you are so precious, and I thank you so much for all the positive comments I have received for this story. I can't express how much it means to me, and how much it motivates me to continue this. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, I feel that this is really the calm before the storm, if I'm going to be cliché about this. As usual, let me know what you think!


	13. Chapter 13

 

 

I finish my soda, putting the empty can next to hers on the coffee table, “Why not go into perinatal nursing, if you love seeing women giving birth so much.”

She gives me a slight push with her shoulder, that is just so close to mine. “I don't _love_ seeing women giving birth – I just love the story. Oh, and also the, like historical aspect. Not to mention -”

“But would it not be a better working environment?”

She snorts, “You're starting to sound a lot like Danny. You guys should stop hanging out behind my back.”

I bring my index to my mouth, pointing at the back of my throat. “Please. I have better taste with who I choose to associate with.”

She dramatically rubs away nonexistent tears. Dork. “I am so flattered Carmilla. You're getting so emotional, I might just cry.”

I deadpan, “And that would, certainly, such a drastic change from your usual behavior.” I see her pout from the corner of my eye. I bite back a smile.

I keep my eyes on the television. “Are you happy, Laura?” Her name slips off my tongue, defiant and uncontrollable, like raindrops against a window.

I assume that she hasn't heard me, as she doesn't respond for a few moments before she surprises me as breaks the silence with, “Why?”

Perhaps because of what her roommate said, and the way it keeps playing in my mind in a heavy kind of repeat. I shrug. “Wondering, that is all.”

She tugs the blanket so that it is flush against her chin. She brings her legs under her and I feel her feet against my thigh, her back leaning slightly against me. For this moment, a girl who appears to be larger than life regardless of her height seems just so small. She runs a hand through her hair, “Well, I am right now.”

That seems like enough. Maybe not good, maybe not the answer I desired. Not proof that what the tall redhead said was false. But it is enough to lighten this weight that I had not known I was carrying.

“Are you?”

I understand her words then, as I give them back to her, “I am right now.”

She nods like she already knew the answer to her question. I feel her hand on my leg for a few moments before it retreats. Almost like I imagined it. I wonder then, how do you tell a girl that she is the one thing in your life that makes you feel genuine happiness? Or at least, what you imagine it is. I cannot help but to think about the love Marceline carries for Bonnie and how one should attempt not to make another everything. In this atypical context, she has become everything. Regardless, it doesn't mean anything because happiness, as I live it, is a burnt book with only a few words still visible, the ashes clinging onto your skin instead of meaning. It is a broken glass, cutting your lips as you try to take a sip to soothe a parched throat. It is a fractured hand trying to clumsily hold on to anything despite the pain caused by the sharpened edges of splintered bones cutting into the fragile tissues that protect it. It shouldn't mean anything, but it does. It is written in hypertrophic scars on my chest, sung by the wind in a snowstorm. But yet, I sit, just so still. Trying desperately not to put my ear to her chest, to not be profoundly comforted by the air moving in and out her lungs.

Her ring tone is that sound the flying box makes, in her nerdy space show. She jumps at the sound, “Holy Hufflepuff, who on earth could be calling me at this creepily late hour? I swear to the lesbian goddesses that if it's the hospital I will -” She brings the phone to her ear, “Hello?”

She raises an eyebrow in my direction, “For you, Elizabeth Bathory.”

I raise an eyebrow before taking the phone, knowing from the nickname who it already is, “What is it, Abadeer?”

Marceline's usually smooth and melodic voice is absent. In exchange, her voice is high pitched and excited, “Okay, well I'm sorry for disturbing your not date with your oh so not girlfriend, but I couldn't wait to tell you-” I look almost embarrassingly at the nurse, fearing her reaction. Knowing she can hear her clearly. She has this annoying smug look on her face. I am relieved and annoyed, as I feel I am constantly when in the presence of this nurse. “I think I found out why Bonnie stopped her meds.”

I cannot help but to mirror her enthusiasm, but I do not hear it manifested in my voice, “Really?”

She takes a deep breath, “Yeah, really. Well, it makes sense. Two things remained important to Bonnibel, even when she was really sick. Me, and school. And she's been repeating things, you know, I thought it was just a hallucination, delusions, nonsense. But it makes sense now. Fuck, I can't believe I didn't think of it earlier -” 

I snort, “I think you are spending too much time with Perry. You have evidently adopted her long rants, waiting until the last possible minute of attention before saying the important facts.”

“Stop being an antisocial dick, Lisbeth Salander, this is important-”

I laugh, “And you have clearly stolen my creative name calling. Go on,”

I know she is not bothered the slightest by her tone of voice, “Whatever. She even said it the other time while you were there – that the medication breaks things. So I looked over your notes, and there was a lot of information about side effects.” My mouth opens, I can almost hear the pieces falling into place. “So I thought, that's why, you know. She couldn't work in the lab. She used to drop things when she got better. She never really had before. She's a chem major for fuck's sake, she can't afford to be clumsy. It's probably not even in her DNA. Do you know how much lab equipment costs? A fucking tit, Karnstein.”

I laugh, relief flooding through me, “Oh my fucking god.”

She looks at me, confused, her hand petting Mircalla absentmindedly.

“Nurse, please tell me the common side effects from first generation antipsychotics?”

She rolls her eyes, but recites the common side effects into the phone I have now positioned in front of her face.

“Well, I think you have definitely made a step forward, Vampire Queen.”

I hear Laura mumble, “How come she gets the cool nicknames and I get all the crappy edible ones.”

“So her noncompliance stems from the side effects. Or maybe perhaps nonresponse -”

She cuts me off, “Yeah, exactly. So I talked to Bonnibel about it. I made a deal with her. Seriously, I didn't think it would work but it did. I told her to go back to school, she needed to live in her apartment. Thankfully her filthy fucking rich parents have kept paying the bills, hoping she would just magically come back. Then I told her, that to live in her apartment, she needed to see her doctor. She gave me the rant on how the medication sucked and all that. When I told her that I knew it did, that we were going to ask the doctor to change it, she agreed. She fucking agreed, Carmilla.”

I bring my hand to my forehead, taking it in.

Her voice breaks, “She's going back home. With me.”

I smile into the telephone, “Yeah, Marceline. She is.”

“So you can stay with your nurse for as long as you want – hell stay there forever and get married and raise short sarcastic children for all I care. I'm obviously calling in sick tomorrow. I'm going to try to get the appointment with the doctor as soon as I can and get this all sorted out.”

Mircalla is still asleep next to the nurse, clearly undisturbed by this excitement. Once the call ends, I hold the phone dumbly in my hands, still uncharacteristically shocked by this turn of events. “Thank you for letting me use your phone.”

She shakes her head, a soft smile on her lips, “It's all good. It was for a good cause.”

The look in her eyes feels like it could give me pride for an eternity, “Yeah. It is. I can't believe she did it, I guess.”

“I guess that she had some pretty decent help.”

I do not know what to say to that.

That smug look comes back tenfold, “So...” She tilts her head to the side, “What exactly are your friends about me, Carmilla?”

I give her a clear view of my middle finger and her laugh resonates into my skin, leaving trails of goosebumps in its wake.

 

* * *

 

It is when I look at the empty place where Bonnie's blanket has been that I realize she is truly gone. It is bittersweet. A few people have came and went from this group, this place. I had faced their departures, the overdoses, arrests, and disappearances, with indifference. The group has never felt so small, this basement has never felt so big, the constant silence heavy and dreary. The days have regained their previous lengths, the hours tedious and dull, like a slow song on repeat. In moments like this, I let myself imagine. Maybe remember. The uncensored joy on Marceline's face as she carried Bonnie's bag. Filled with the accumulation of months on the streets. Junk, things without purpose, a bad memory. Something she will not want to keep. I imagine Bonnie and the way she might be starting to build her center back up, thankfully to a few weeks worth of medication. Brick by brick, going back to a version of herself that allows her to feel safety, comfort and happiness. I imagine her health. I see her, as Marceline had described, in a lab coat, her hair up in a clean bun. Talking endlessly about science. I hunger and crave for that happy ending, rooted in facts and their shared determination. So, as I said, bittersweet.

I know Perry and LaF have noticed. I know they are feeling her absence. Perhaps, Bonnie had helped us as well, giving us a sense of purpose.

LaF sits next to me on my bed. It is not something they usually do. “I know you're missing your long lost sister. You can talk about it, you know.”

I look up from the page I had been staring at, not taking in a single word, “Bonnie?”

They shake their head, playing with their friendship bracelet. Clearly a gift from Perry. “No, Marceline.”

I raise an eyebrow. “We related just as much as you two reds are.”

They pretend to gag. “Honestly Carmilla, you guys were like twins. Well, with a considerable height difference of like three meters, but you know. The same.”

“I do not miss them. It would be cruel to wish for them.”

They sigh. I know they understand. I play with the edge of the page of the tattered book on my lap. A book read far to many times. A comfort.

“I think I always knew it would be down to us three.”

“What?”

They look at the empty corner of the room. “That we would be the last three remaining. To think that at one point we hardly had enough space, we couldn't get to the stairs without stepping on someone's hair.”

I snort, “Those were the days. I thought the smell of sweat would be forever tainted in these walls.”

They laugh, “It's probably still here, we just got so accustomed to it that we can't smell it anymore.”

I take a sniff in their direction. “You're good.”

They do the same for me, a grin on their face, “I think we use the same soap.”

“Probably.”

They punch my leg goodnaturedly, “It's going to be our turn soon.”

There is a certainty in their words like there is something they know that they are not willing to tell me, “Maybe.”

“I get it, you know. I know that as happy as we are for them, it's hard when some of them leave. I remember, way back, before you joined us, there was this other kid. They were funny and nice and clean. They were the first non-binary person I had met. It just really meant something to me. Not being the only one. Having someone who just intrinsically got it. When they left, it was just so bad. Perry didn't know what to do. But it we get used to it. Now we just have to get used to Bonnie and her girlfriend being gone.”

It is change. It is the change in the carefully established routine that disturbs me the most. I only realize it then.

“You want to get your guitar? We can jam like you and V.Q.”

I laugh at the nickname, “That almost sounds like the name of an overly dramatic indie band. Either way, I would like to see you attempting to play bass or guitar.”

They turn towards me, “I can beat box pretty good.”

I take out my guitar regardless. I cannot help but think of how long it has been since I played it simply for my own personal amusement. It is a sad song, the type strangers do not want to hear.

 

* * *

 

I think the nurse noticed the change in my voice. When she asks me to come over Friday, like she usually does, she doesn't hang up with an overly enthusiastic and rapid “bye”. She asks me about my day. She tells me about her shift. I do not understand why, but I like being the one she calls as she walks back from work after midnight. I can see her walking with her thick scarf and her windblown hair. Her image imprinted on my long term memory from all the times I followed her home, just so long ago. Her voice comes alive through the phone, filling the empty air of Silas. As she tells me about her day, I can almost see her messy bun, her vibrant absurd uniform. I am lying on my mat, eyes closed, visualizing so elaborately I barely realize that she has stopped talking. 

“Are you home, cupcake?”

I hear her keys clanging together, “Yep, give me a sec.”

I hear the rustling of clothes. I am picturing her, putting her snow covered coat away, making her way to the pantry for some unhealthy snack.

Her voice is hesitant and small, “Carm?”

“Still here, cupcake.”

I can hear her mouth opening and closing, the ghost of a sentence on her lips.

I turn to my side, cradling LaF's phone to my ear, “I can hear you thinking from the other side of the town. Just say it before you combust.”

She sighs, “Well, since, you know, that we're clearly both up, and that I don't think I'll be able to sleep anytime soon and all that I was thinking, that maybe -”

“You know that you are allowed to breathe when you are speaking, right?”

“Oh shut it. I was just, thinking, that maybe you could come over tonight? We don't usually do bi-weekly hangouts but-”

“You crazy nurse. You know you're working a sixteen-hour shift tomorrow, right?”

Her sigh sounds a little more exasperated than the previous one, “Trust me, I know. But we could have a sleepover? I could make waffles tomorrow morning. You could take the guest room, heck you basically built it yourself.”

“Cutie -”

Her voice raises, high-pitched and all, “You stop with the distracting nicknames and just say yes. It's not a big deal, you already broke your,” her voice deepens and clearly mocks my tone of voice, “I do not do touchy-feely sleep overs, butter tart.”

I silently laugh, not being able to help it.

I hear her move, I picture her in her wrinkled scrubs, laying on the couch. “Danny's not here tonight. I don't really like being alone. Here. I said it. Are you satisfied?”

Maybe it's her defeated tone or the fact that I am finding myself also bothered by the fact that both Perry and LaF left a few hours ago. “I'm on my way, butter tart. If I die of hypothermia you better pay for my funeral and weep hysterically over my cold dead body.”

“Deal.”

 

* * *

 

I try to take in the warmth of the corridor of her apartment, to calm down the persistent trembling that seems to have only gotten worse. I stopped feeling my toes around the halfway point and my jaw feels as though it has been frozen shut. When I realize that any attempt to warm up the accumulation of forty-five minutes of exposure to cold is futile, I knock on her door.

She is in her typical worn sweater, her eyes widen when she sees me, “Oh my fricking god, Carmilla. Did you walk here?” She tugs me by my sleeve and drags me into her apartment.

I shrug despite invisible flames licking my frozen skin as it starts to thaw, “Well… my roommates had to use the car.” I am surprised I can say this with a straight face.

She walks towards her room, fists bunched at her sides. “You stupid, stupid girl.”

I reluctantly undress, infinitely happy I left Mircalla at Silas. It makes the look of pure hatred she gave me before I left suddenly feel like it was worth it. Either way, Perry or LaF will keep her company soon enough. Barely a second after I am sitting on her couch, she dumps a heavy bundle of blankets on me.

She stands in front of me, a hand on her hips and another holding out a knitted pink sweater. I roll my eyes, “I am not wearing that.”

She continues to glare at me, “You wanted to be all tough and punk and walk in polar temperatures, you need to assume the consequences.”

“You are being dramatic. I am perfectly fi-”

She takes a deep breath and I suddenly feel like a small animal, getting disciplined, “You should have just told me! I wouldn't have insisted.”

“Isn't physical activity something you nurses recommend -”

She shakes the sweater. “Put it on and then you can go back to making fun of me and the rest of my peers.”

I look around, making sure her roommate, or anyone I know for that matter, hasn't magically manifested in the room. I put it on quickly. “Happy?”

She sits down next to me, pulling the blankets over herself, “Not one bit, but this will do.”

There are two mugs of steaming hot chocolate on the coffee table. I take the one without the marshmallows, knowing she has made it for me. I feel her inching closer to me.

“Missed me, cutie?”

She scoffs, “No I'm trying to avoid you getting hypothermia and then dying and then having to pay for a funeral in which I have to weep over your cold dead body.”

I laugh, the warmth growing under the blanket surrounding me and making everything feel fuzzy. “Too late, I can feel myself slipping away.”

She frowns, “I don't even know why I asked you to come over. You're horrible company.”

I just look at her. I take in the curve of her stray hairs, the way the color of her sweater seems to make her eyes lighter, somehow. “Well, I did just walk in the cold for the better part of an hour, for your adult sleepover, creampuff. Shouldn't I be getting a trophy or a pat on the head or something?”

She sighs, just so softly. “I know. I do feel bad, just so you know.”

“Good. I take much comfort in that.”

I feel her hand give a small pat on my head, “I'll get you a trophy made.”

“Waiting for it.”

She yawns, “This is comfy.” She takes the remote, scrolling through shows and movies.

“Well, we are under approximately sixteen layers of blankets. You have a quantity of blankets that can rival an elderly woman who lived through the great depression.”

It is when she shifts slightly that I realize how close she is as she leans her back half onto me for support, stretching her legs on the sofa. She feels like warm water on aching muscles, a temporary relief. “As troubled as I am with your weird sleep schedule, and trust me, coming from me that is something, I think I might like it a tiny bit.”

I shrug. “It's not so bad. You should see my roommate Perry's.”

She nods, “Yeah, I bet. She works like crazy. It's really sweet what she does for the women she's working for.”

“What she does?”

She gestures in the air, “You know, helping them. It's actually the perfect combination of housework and just plain simple help. Sometimes just making sure some of them are eating and drinking and taking their medication is enough to keep them at home, instead of the hospital. It's kind of really sad, when you think of it, how older women living alone are amongst the poorest in society. Either way, the health care system probably saved a lot of money from just Perry's help.”

I think back about what LaF had said, about how the homeostasis was rarely respected. How unfair it is that such a good willed girl like Perry lives in the cold abandoned basement of a place left to rot.

I see the back of her hair tilting to the side, “She would make such a great nurse. She's really good with them.” She to look at me, over her shoulder. “If she ever wants to go into nursing, let me know. I can help her study and all that.”

I nod, imagining Perry and LaF in an apartment like this one. Perry in a uniform, with a lunch packed with food that she will eat without worrying for the next one. The shower just a few feet way from the door when she comes back from work. “She would make a good nurse.”

She laughs, “And you would probably be the only doctor in this town with mostly nurses as friends. How oddly satisfying.”

How easily she prompts this fragile hope in my mind.

That next morning, the sun shines in the falling snow. I am nursing a hot cup of coffee in my hands as I watch her race around her apartment. It is almost comical, seeing her sleepy face, her hair falling out of the messy bun. She is now a part of my routine and I can no longer deny how necessary she has become.

She comes out of her room rapidly, with two uniform tops in her hands, “Okay, so I do need your help. Which one?”

I raise an eyebrow, looking at the two uniforms. A pink top and another one which appears to be covered with tiny owls. “Does the uniform really make a difference?”

Her hands fall to her sides, “Have you ever been in a hospital, Carmilla?”

“If you don't know the answer to that question, I do not think you are fit for work. Memory impairment and all.”

She rolls her eyes, “Then you know how the colors of the walls are either extremely bland or just not appealing. The only thing decorating the walls are like centuries old stains and medical equipment. I can't paint the walls a new color or hang paintings. The only thing I can do is to wear something that isn't as ugly as everything else in the hospital -”

I raise my hands up, “Okay, don't get your uniforms in a bunch, I get your point. Go with the bird one.”

She tugs the tank top in the pants of her uniform before putting the scrub top on, “See, that wasn't so difficult.”

“You look lovely.”

Her faces bunches up but I notice the flushed skin on her cheeks, “Gosh could you, at least, take a break from the constant teasing for like three seconds?”

“I believe you like the teasing, nurse, seeing as you are the one that invited me over.”

I see her smile before she tries to brush it off of her face, “You will make absolutely no doctor friends.”

I smile. Maybe I feel a little jealous that the tall amazon gets to deal with her every morning. Especially so when she thanks me for coming over, with teeth biting the side of her lower lip. But, as she drops me off at the library, half way between Silas and her apartment, it feels like everything is back where it belongs. That is something important.

 

* * *

 

I am shrugging my coat off when I hear them laugh.

“Nice sweater, girlfriend.”

I look down, realizing that I am still wearing the nurse's sweater. “At least, it doesn't make me look like some farmer's long lost child.”

They snort as they look down on their plaid shirt, tucked into their pants, suspenders snugly on their shoulders to complete the look. “Good call.”

I am practicing a new song on my guitar, using a music sheet stolen from an alternative rock magazine, when Perry comes back. Perry is accompanied with her usual scent, bleach and cleaning products. She talks to LaF in quiet tones. I respect their privacy, only acknowledging her once she makes her way to get some food from the cooler.

An hour later, it dawns on me how odd their silence is. My voice cuts through the silence, “Are you guys going to tell me what's happening or do I have to guess?”

They look at each other nervously. I can see LaF's hands twisting together and Perry's face carrying a pained expression.

Their silence causes anxiety to bubble up in my gut, toxic and burning, “Did you get Perry pregnant?”

Perry gets up and sits next to me. I put my guitar next to me. She takes a deep breath. Before turning to LaF, “LaFontaine, could you join us here?”

They hesitantly sit in front of my mat. I look at Perry expectantly, “Go on.”

She takes my hands in hers, I am confused and unsettled and it no doubt makes its appearance on my face. She knows I am not one for casual affection. “Carmilla, we need to talk about something important. I know it's really a horrible time and that with the whole Bonnie and Marceline leaving it just will make this even more – that you were so sickly when you came here, barely any weight on you and -”

LaF cuts her off, “Perry. Look, it's not the end of the world. I might feel like it at first but – well, here it is. The city is destroying this building. They are going to demolish Silas to build some apartment blocks or something-”

All I can hear is this ringing my ears. It takes me a moment to realize that my hands are shaking, “That is impossible, they cannot just tear this place down -”

They put a hand on my shoulder, squeezing tightly. “It's true, Carmilla. Some insanely rich guy bought the property.”

I cannot even begin to express what this place is. How often these broken walls were the only thing that kept us standing up. Winter might be starting to let its grip soften, but the cold is far from gone. It all comes back to me in a way that now makes sense, “You knew. You have known for a while. That's why you were insisting that intensely on getting Bonnie home, as quickly as possible. That's why you have been saving up.” I look at Perry, “That's why you have been working so much.”

Perry just nods weakly.

My head falls into my hands, no longer able to carry it above my shoulders. I hear LaF say quietly, “We will be okay. We'll find a way to be. We always do.”

I know deep in my bones that they will be okay. That they will tie loose ends and find a way to make things work again. They have survived this long and will continue to do so. But I will not. I will come undone as the walls of Silas comes crumbling down. I cannot face the streets with the uncertainty of shelter, once again. I barely survived it once and I will not survive it this time. I do not know if my voice breaks or if it is broken, “This is the only true home I have ever known.”

I say this as if, if I convince them, they can change the outcome. Maybe I see Perry's eyes fill with tears she will not let herself shed because she knows what a home is and what it means to lose it. Knowing how much it takes for me to admit something so honest and vulnerable. LaF's back is straight and tense like they are trying to convince themselves that their body is as good a shelter as Silas has ever been. They continue to try to cheer us up, ranting about possible plans, about the good in change. But I do not hear them anymore. Perry simply looks at me, I know it is my pain she feels and not her own. That the deal LaF made with her is enough for her to believe that they can make their way out of any challenge. It is without uncertainty, that I know that deal was not made with me. No one can carry another on their back when they are crawling on broken knees in order to survive. My bones feel like reinforcing bars digging into a mess of weak flesh. Heavy and useless. So, eventually I fall back on my yoga mat, in the basement of an abandoned building, affectionately called Silas University.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I feel like a dick. As usual, let me know what you think, if you hate me or what I should tag this fanfic with (I'm thinking about: longest slow burn ever slow burned or I wish this was a first-person story of someone who liked to think about puppies, but I am open to suggestions). Thanking you once again for following this story and ultimately giving it(me) a chance.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Italics are memories. Tw; mention of suicide

 

 

No one likes an unhappy ending. For that simple fact, I regret that this is all I can give to you. The days are muddled and blurry. I do not wish to understand them anymore. So, I lay on my mat and I try to forget that I am capable of movement. The cramping, violent pain of hunger has stopped this morning, instead, a constant and dull ache remains. I feel the skin of my stomach tugging at my ribs as if trying to bring them back in. To collapse back into the nothingness from which I was made. The discomfort is barely registered, as it cannot compare to the agony of a mind that does not want to continue. To the heaviness of bones who understand and the organs determinately trying to ignore. It feels like everything is out of balance. They leave me alone the first day. I settle into the silence, and I remain. It is easy, as they are gone for the greater part of the day. When they come back, I barely hear their words. _Have you eaten, Carmilla? What did you do today, Carmilla? Please talk to us, Carmilla. It's been three days, Carmilla_. I have gone back, and back, to a time in which words are not said lightly if at all. In which isolation is the true safety. It seems you cannot trick fate. It is a patient thing, much like the drops of water that eventually builds tunnels in the mountains. Bidding its time in the shadows until time knocks on its door again. This time, the door has been broken to splinters. Into the tiniest fibers of wood.

They stop telling me about their plans for after Silas by the fourth day. I see them through a stained glass. Their movements once comforting and familiar feel a stranger. Like a movie on fast forward. Something I cannot keep up with. Something I cannot understand anymore. So I am alone. Something I should get used to. But the inevitable truth is, that I am not alone. Instead of LaF and Perry, I talk with my failures. I sleep with my desperation. I feast on the small and fragile hope that once had bloomed in my chest. Its absence burns with gradual intensity, like hot coals on soft flesh. A slow type of pain that resonates in my every nerve.

By the fifth day, I sit on my mat. Moving limbs that no longer seem worthy of life, like modern day necromancy. They expect me to see the nurse today. Maybe I see hope in their tired eyes once I am sitting. It is hard to tell. Mircalla is laying down on a pile of clothes next to my mat. They have both been taking care of her. Shame digs into my spine, knowing that if wasn't for them, she would not want to be anywhere near me. I do not deserve to see her body rise and fall as she breathes. Do not deserve to take comfort in the simplicity of her existence.

LaF rubs the sleep out of their eyes. Perry makes her way to our food, “Carmilla, you're up! Would you like… we have oatmeal cookies and orange juice -”

I shake my head.

Her brows come together, but it is LaF who says, “You need to eat. When was the last time -”

“Last night. When you were gone.”

Perry sigh of relief only makes me feel guilty. LaF looks at me disbelievingly.

I swallow, my throat dry and unresponsive. “How are your plans going?”

I try to distract them with normalcy. I hear the constants and the vowels but I do not hear the words. I only know they are done talking by the tone of their voice. “That's good.”

The silence creeps back in as I try to formulate a sentence. I repeat it in my mind until I am sure it will not come out broken. “I do not know where or how I will live after Silas -”

Perry cuts me off, her voice shrill and almost distressed, “Carmilla, we told you-”

“I know. I just want to make sure of one thing. If I could not take care of Mircalla anymore, would you?”

They exchange looks. LaF tilts their head to the side, “Of course. You know we love her.”

It is my sigh of relief that then fills the silence.

Perry hands me a cup of juice, “Is that what you were worried about? Mircalla?”

I nod. I try to take in her smile like it could be something I could keep in my pocket or a photo album. I take one of my heavy books, my legs shaking under the weight, ripping off a piece of a partly blank page. I try to drink the bland juice. I write down the words that have written on the inside of my eyelids for the past days. It is only when I am done and the flimsy piece of paper is settled in my pockets that I talk again. “I should get going. I am meeting Laura early today.”

That seems to be good enough for them. Enough to make them talk amongst themselves in a carefree manner once again. I look at LaF once I am making my way up the stairs. I wish there was a way for me to thank them. I wish that at this moment, my words didn't fail me. Without looking back, I make my way towards the nurse's apartment block, trying to ignore the dizziness and how little air is able to remain in my lungs. It is without allowing any emotions to break through that I slip the note into her letter box. It unfolds in my hands and I make sure the words are in an order that makes sense. My handwriting is messy in a way I would have never accepted before.

_Laura Hollis,_

_I wanted to thank you. You are all kinds of righteous and good, in a way I never thought I would see up close. You are both the art and the meaning, in its impossibility, of immeasurable worth._

_I wish you nothing but the best._

_C.K._

I have not returned to the building I took her, that one night, a lifetime ago. As my feet carry me, I say my goodbyes to the broken streets and the distracted people who walk them. I make my way up the ladder, not bothering to see if anyone can see. I am invisible, I as I make my way up the ladder and then the stairs. Once I am sitting on the edge of the building, my legs hanging and sore, it is then the world that becomes invisible to me. It is my memories that are harder to say goodbye to as I am the only one who can carry them. The streets, the high rise buildings, Mircalla, Perry, and LaF, will continue to exist, I remind myself.

I had learned from the youngest of ages, that I had to not do great but better. It is what it is, ultimately a cliche. Its importance rooted in its impact on one irrelevant individual. It is hard to clean up a mess of memories, to determine the exact cause of the drastic turns in my life. They are incoherent and erratic. In my youth, I cradled the thought of my Mother's pain as a shield. Protecting me from the absence of a soothing hand as my small knees bled from a fall. Protecting me from pink-clad girls who would never play, always run away. Protecting me from this constant pressure to be the best at absolutely everything I did. Protecting me, ultimately, from total isolation and the constant pressure. How could it be important, my discomfort, my sadness? When it could never compare? When I could hear my mother say, _When I was your age, I was already working. Do you understand what that means? I did not have free time, as you seem to be insisting on wanting. I went to school, worked, and the rest of the time was for my studies. I did not have a parent who easily paid for what I needed to live. I had to work for it. You cannot see it, child? You understand naught of hardship. Naught of what it means to truly labor for what you obtain. All I am requiring you to do is to adhere to your schedule and to acquire the grades that are required of you. Do you even know how much I am spending on tutors for you?_ Now, I can see. I nursed her pain in my mind. I created it, thread by thread until it seemed elaborate enough for me to believe that our way of living made sense. That I owed her everything.

“ _I love her, Mother.”_

_Her palm hits my cheek so suddenly and with such strength, I taste blood in my mouth. My mild actions of rebellion, I realize then, are nothing compared to this. To loving someone, or trying so desperately to._

“ _You can speak of affection once you prove yourself to be someone. Success comes first, then you can procure the rest.”_

_By then, my emotions were tangled and unpredictable. My voice raises for the first time at this woman who has been both the target of an irrational unconditional love and source of suffering. “By every standard, I am someone. Not only am I a medical student but I have the highest grades in all of my classes in the harshest program in the country.” I cannot help but feel like there is a hand wrapped tightly around my throat, nails digging into the skin. I try with all my might not to scream out how doubtful I am that I will reach that moment in which I will have the freedom to choose what I pursue. I can hear the clock ticking and it feels like it has become part of my anatomy._

The sun is coming down, a reminder that time has not stood still. That existence is motion and the only one I am capable is caused by the wind, making my legs hit the side of the building. I feel like an outsider, looking at the body I inhabit at a distance.

_She stops returning my calls a little more than a week later. It is only when I crawl into my bed, amongst the books and notes permanently littered there, that I allow myself to think that maybe Mother was right. I feel like a fool. I understand then, why Mother has tried to spare me of any relationship, platonic or otherwise. She was right. It is then I come to comprehend the specific type of pain that comes with the exhaustion of any ability to feel something that can be verbalized. I find out from a girl in one of her classes that she has switched schools. I stop calling her. I was wrong to think that love could exist without pain._

The street lights make the snowflakes glow in this darkness. I know from the numbness in my skin that I have been here for longer than it seems. A minute and an hour melt into sameness. I look at the people making their way down the streets. I wonder, would anyone be truly able to tell which moment was the one that made them go wrong or would they just point in the general direction of their pain?

_By the end of my second year of medicine, I cannot sleep anymore. Days have lost their traditional meaning. It takes me twice as long to read and incredibly longer to memorize. I see my grades reduced to average. I lie to mother about it. It is getting harder to remind myself that I need to continue, that there is purpose in my work. I do it regardless, not knowing what else to do. I have stopped recognizing the pale face in the mirror._

As my limbs twitch and tremble, I am then cognizant of what makes one lie in the snow, so slowly pass away. There is a calm that settles in you. A last attempt of the autonomic nervous system to make you comfortable. The broken moon hangs high in the blacken sky. Its height indicates the beginning of the night. I know I will not be able to sit much longer. My heart pumps at an agonizingly fast rate in my chest. Nausea settles in my throat.

_It is on a Monday afternoon that I come to realize that both my happiness and love have a price. I am lost in a pile of textbook and notes in a café downtown when her sister sees me. Her attempts at casual conversation fail quickly. I cannot look her in the eye without seeing Ell._

“ _This is awkward and weird that we randomly meet up like this. But, uh, I wanted to say I'm sorry.”_

_I look up at her briefly before going back to my notes, “What for?”_

_I see her feet shuffling nervously against the wooden floor of the café, “For you, you know, everything that happened with my sister. You were always so nice to me, to us, you practically saved me from failing biology. I still feel bad for everything that happened between you guys,” She sighs and tugs on the straps of her backpack, “But it was just so much money. It probably seems stupid and like nothing to you because your mom makes -”_

_My sleep deprived mind is jolted back to life, “The money?”_

_She nods. The guilt tainting her face, for something so out of her control, makes her look so much younger. More like the little girl I knew two years ago terrified of what leaving high school meant. “Without it, I don't think Ell would have done so well in school. She would have had to work like crazy hours to pay for all that, cause even though mom and dad try to help us...” She shrugs, looking at her beat up Converse. “You know?”_

_The remorse should not belong to her. I swallow back my surprise at the information. I should have known. Emotions so fierce, of the likes which I have never known, threaten to spill out of me. I had feared that day for so long, but its arrival only feels like a relief. “I get it.” I close my textbook and look at her. “I am over what happened.” I cannot tell this child how the memories keep me awake at night until I see the sun rising, mocking me. “Is your sister well?”_

_She wrings her hands together, “Yeah, she is. It was really bad you know, she thought about it for so long before she agreed. She kept saying that your mother was probably doing this behind your back, but we kept telling her no, that your mother wouldn't do that behind your back. I kept telling her that you were like so smart. That you knew and that's why you stopped calling her. That you needed to work hard to become a doctor but that you still wanted to help her.”_

_I wish I wanted to scream, to destroy this city to pieces, to rip Mother's heart from her chest with my bare hands. Instead, I feel like I am falling into myself, losing my posture, emptying out. I nod, “I need to go. Tell your sister that I wish her nothing but the best.”_

_I leave that small girl in the café behind. Once home, I drop my bag on the floor and I fall down next to it. Freedom is a joke that I have been foolish and ignorant enough to believe. Mother's constant grip will never loosen._

_A few days later, I am in the bathroom of this empty house. In one hand I clutch a stolen scalpel from my mother's clinic. In the other I hold the edge of the sink until my knuckles are white. I stare at the young girl in the mirror, trying to convince myself that she is me. That I should not feel pity, looking at the mess of black makeup, dark circles, and glossy bloodshot eyes. It is not murder I am committing, but rather a revenge. Justice. A last desperate attempt at freedom. I fill up the tub with the warm water. The black clothing I had adopted in these past years now feels like it has all been to prepare for this funeral. I want her to choke on the irony. On how she will take my lifeless body out of the tub and her hands will be stained with my blood. In a way, it always has, and in a way she has always ignored. She will not be able to ignore this open casket as she has so easily disregarded me before. It will be inevitable for her logic-obsessed mind to try to understand why this happened. Like she could explain this like symptoms associated with a pathology. I can only hope she remembers the little moments I carry with me now. The way she took my broken arm at seven, annoyance being the only emotion she could give me. A childhood of learning not to cry and unlearning how to feel. How she would banish me to my room if she had any guest over. I would blame my gap-toothed smile or my messy curls, or the way I could not pronounce certain words, for her shame. By the time puberty hit, I knew without a doubt, that my Mother had never truly wanted a child. I finished high school and understood that what she had wanted was a successor. Using a lifetime to groom a person into her, so that what she had worked for would not go to an undeserving stranger._

_By the time I had Ell's hand in mine while eating supper with her parents, I came to terms with the concept of neglect. How subtle it could be, remaining in the lines of legalities. I never told her, why would it matter? It had taken me all these years to learn it as it truly was. It is abstract and subjective, irrelevant when compared to how much sweat and blood had been shed by her parents to keep her fed and dressed all these years. I was unable to focus on anything but the fond smiles they exchanged, laughter filling the table considerably more than the food. You are okay with living a shitty life when you do not know it is so. When you do not know that life can be so much more. That it can be an importance placed on your happiness instead of an acceptance letter._

_I slip into the warm bath. I tug the plastic cap protecting the edge of the blade off with my teeth. I palpate the rapidly pulsing carotid artery with ease. I try to push away the muscles with an aching hand, knowing how deep I need to cut. It is the shaking hand of a stranger that brings the scalpel to my throat. It will only take a few minutes and will stain these walls until they are torn down. I am choking on the hopelessness that builds in my chest and falls down on my cheeks. It is the sound of my sobs echoing in the bathroom that brings me back to myself. I am no longer able to hold on to the blade and it falls into the water. I feel the small wound bleeding sluggishly, not deep enough to mean anything. But the muscle in my chest is pleading, slamming roughly into my sternum. If I can survive, it is not here._

_I pack a bag and leave that same night, with only a handful of twenty dollar bills in my pocket. I get on a bus to a heavily populated city I have only heard the name of._

The cold is making my thoughts jumble together. I can almost hear the small nurse talking. Laura. I almost stand up then, to make my way down this seven-story building.

It hits me when I realize I could never imagine her voice so heartbroken, “Carm.”

I turn around, my neck and face frozen stiff. I try to open my mouth and fail. After a few tries, I manage a weak, “What are you doing here?”

She stands as if her boots are mending with the concrete underneath, “Trying to stop you from jumping off.”

I turn my gaze back to the streets, “I am not trying to kill myself, cutie. I am meditating. Go back home before you catch a cold.”

Her voice is calm but I hear her irregular breathing.

“How did you find me here?”

A cab picks up a woman in a blue coat, and the nurse sniffles behind me. I cannot look at her. “By pure fricking luck, I checked my mail after my day shift. I tried to call on your phone, but it wouldn't answer. So I went to your apartment. I asked your roommates.”

The world stands still. This cannot mean what I think it does. “What?”

I hear her take a brave step but the shock fills me. “I went to Silas.”

It is obvious she is trying to stand tall, to make this casual, “You knew?”

She shakes her head in disbelief, “Of course I did. I'm not as clueless as you seem to think. Do you think I would have insisted on having a stranger sleepover the first night they came over to my place?”

It's hard to grasp all the information that is being given in my cold-induced haze, “Why did you not tell me?”

She takes a small step forward once again, biting her lip, hesitant. “Would you have agreed to see me if I knew you were homeless?”

I look back at the buildings covering the city, the lights of passing cars dancing on their walls. I knew the answer the second she asked her question. “No.”

“Exactly. You would have blocked me out, pegged me as a naive, ridiculous girl with a savior complex -”

I see the way the harsh winds blow that familiar crimson scarf, the one that had guided me to her so long ago.

Her faces twists and I understand then that this is what true tears look like. The ones shed for a television show seem like a joke. “And maybe I am. I don't know anymore and it doesn't matter. This is not why I wanted to see you. To keep seeing you.”

“Why did you then? Keep seeing me?”

She takes a step forward once again and stops as if held back. It is then she looks away. “I don't know, Carmilla. Maybe for a thousand different reasons or none. Maybe because even if you have left out important information about yourself, you still managed to be nothing but sincere. Maybe because you make it easier for me to understand myself. Maybe because sometimes I think about things you've said to me on my way back from work and it always makes me laugh even if I'm alone and I've had the hardest of shifts.”

Her eyes are on me and I know that look. Fear and courage mixing together, trying to pretend that honesty is something that is easy to give. I shudder under her sad stare.

“I think, maybe, it's probably because, by pure coincidence, you happened to be there on the day where I felt like I was… you know, on the edge, looking down. It was like you magically appeared in the metro when I came back from seeing my mother. And of course, she hadn't gotten better only -”

She runs her mitten-clad hand through her hair, pushing it back. “She had gotten worse. I saw you and you were playing on your tiny black guitar. It just made me feel as though you were right. That the lyrics were right – that this could be the first day of my life. Or at the very least, it wouldn't always have to feel like my last. What are the probabilities of that? That a girl could say or sing, whatever, the exact thing you needed at the moment you needed the most?”

She moves closer, not enough to reach out and touch me, but enough to make me crave for distance. In the every sense of the word.

She closes her eyes, and opens them as if making up her mind. The certainty in her words burns deep in my bones and the sum of my cells still, giving her my most complete attention, “The thing about you, Carmilla Karnstein, is that you don't understand how important you are. I won't go all typical and cliche on you. I won't tell you saved my life. I don't really believe in saving, you know. But I believe that sometimes we just need a little help. And that's what you so effortlessly did. I've lived so many happy moments since then. It's stupid but you have given me so much happiness. And for that, I owe you all the kindness that I have in me.”

My nails dig into my skin, an old habit that has returned. I bite back the tears until I taste the bitter copper on my tongue. Happiness rings in my ears like the distant bells of a church. It echos like a lullaby sung lovingly to a newborn. A promise. Everything is happening too fast and it is all too hard to understand. I want it all to end here, in a tiny moment of hope soothing like intravenous Dilaudid. I manage to get up on the edge, with sore and weak legs. Once again, they seem to belong to someone else. Too thin, frail, covered by pants barely held together by threads. Is it selfish to want to die somewhere beautiful? Is it selfish to want to be unrecognizable – so that even in death you can still get revenge on the woman who gave you both life and suffering? Not allowing her the opportunity to have answers? To maybe grieve?

I hear the panic under her calm tone, “I know that maybe we're still strangers. I know that it won't change anything if I asked to you stay.” Her voice breaks with such a strength I fear the building will collapse under our feet, “But there were three weeks between that night I heard you singing and the night I took you to my apartment with you dramatic leg injury. So, I'm only asking you to give me that. Three weeks, to prove that even if a happy ending is never promised, there is still good. There is still happiness.”

“Is your mother okay?” It is the only thing I can think to ask.

“She is okay. But even if she isn't – I am. I don't make myself suffer because she is sick anymore. I don't carry her diagnostic as if it was mine. For the first time in my life, I understand this, that my mother and everyone else being sick doesn't make me sick as well.”

I take comfort in knowing that she will be okay. That they will all be. I see the night sky becoming bigger and bigger until its beauty is too strong for my heart to keep on beating. I see my broken body, an unrecognizable mess of flesh and bone and blood. An empty home. I see the air standing still around a body that has now no purpose. I imagine the small nurse calling an ambulance for something no trauma surgeon can fix. I imagine my mother, old and worn, wondering what happened the little girl who wanted to be an artist or a mechanic or exactly like the kind nurse that worked at her clinic. Or maybe, instead, wondering about the version of that child she wanted. The overachieving medical student, knowing nothing less than perfect grades. A child bred and made to become her. Of course, I see all this, so vividly. It is that possibility, the possibility of death, that makes me fall into the arms of the small, beautiful nurse with golden hair instead. It is possible to die and I do not think I am meant to just yet.

 

* * *

 

I cannot remember the walk down the stairs nor the drive back to her apartment. She is helping me stand, much like the first time she took me to her apartment. I wish that look on her face was replaced by the determination and anger as it was then. Instead, she simply looks tired, her small smile tearing me in half. Simply because this is not a success she should have lived. She shouldn't have been there. But she was, and I am breathing. I am still doubting the decision.

She leads me to her room in silence, searching in her drawers. She hands me her pajamas and only tells me to hurry, carrying another pair in her hands. I know she is bothered by my trembling. I should perhaps be worried too but I know that this night could have ended otherwise. She leaves the room, but I can see the shadow of her feet at the floor, moving as she changes.

My voice is hoarse and pierces the silence, “You can come in, creampuff.”

She comes in with her eyebrows tightly together.

I swallow thickly, “I am just going to go -”

She puts her hand on my chest, stopping me from getting up, “No, you are not. You are probably suffering from mild hypothermia and so you are staying with me for tonight. I swear Carmilla I will fight-”

“So you're blatantly manipulating me to get into your bed. Not as romantic as I thought it would be.”

She takes out a few more blankets, laying them on the bed, “Shut it. You're not allowed to mock me tonight. In you go.” I see a small smile tugging at her lips. It looks like it is relief.

It is when I am next to her under the blankets that I suddenly feel so small. I stare at her white ceiling, I know I should say something. But the words build in my throat and fall flat on my tongue. I can feel the bed shaking slightly and I know that I am to blame. I cannot help the sharp intake of breath as I feel her warm body coming to cover mine in an almost fetal position. Her hands grip my side tightly as if trying to keep my body from falling. I guess that she still is, in a way. The only explanation she gives me is a muffled “Body heat,” against my neck.

I bring my hand to her back, “Thank you.”

I ignore the moisture building on the small stretch of skin separating us.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one chapter that has been very difficult to write, and so I hope I have not failed to protray something that is just so difficult to describe. Please don't hate me I am just smol nurse who only likes to hurt characters in her fanfics in her free time. As always, let me know what you think and I hope you enjoyed.


	15. Chapter 15

 

 

The warm air rushes past my chapped lips at such speed it freezes in my chest. Last night comes back to me suddenly, as my wide eyes sweep the nurse's room. There is not much to focus on, in her bland room. I wonder why it is that all the rooms are decorated with photo frames, memorabilia, and tacky blankets, but this room remains bare. Is this not a place where she likes to be? I feel her hand on my side still holding on so tightly, I may never be able to get the imprint of her fingers out of my skin. I feel her hand move with the expansion of my chest and it alleviates the weight of uncertainty.

Her voice is hoarse with fatigue as she turns her face slightly towards me, “Good morning.”

The dark circles under her eyes make it obvious how little sleep she managed to get, “Do you ever sleep?”

She looks at me sharply, “Seeing as you fell asleep the second your head hit the pillow, the same could be asked of you. It's a sign of sleep deprivation, you know.”

“I apologize that we spent such a dull time together, it literally bored me to sleep.”

She jerks her hand away from my waist as if only realizing its location now. She glares at me before letting her head fall back on my chest, defeated. “You're not funny.”

“I know.” Her hair is cascading down the side of my chest, like a waterfall captured on a postcard. A moment from a faraway place you will never reach. In this small place in time, I do not see the wreck I have become, with her hair capturing the sun and making it seem that it is my body emitting that golden shine. She could make even death seem beautiful.

“You stopped shaking at around five. Your temperature seems to be back to normal, or at least, you don't look so blue anymore. Just an FYI, it's really not your color. So anyways, that means it's breakfast time for us.”

I take one last look at her walls before following her to the kitchen. I vow to get her, at least, one thing to hang on them, even if costs all the money I currently own. If only, to lessen the amount I now owe her. She rubs her eyes and yawns while she makes coffee. It is hard to imagine how hard it will be for her to work with this little sleep. She leans on her counter with such a blank expression it is unsettling. She notices my eyes on her and her lips quickly turn upwards. With a few words exchanged, she starts spreading peanut butter on my toast before cutting small slices of banana to lay on top of it. I know it is calories and nutrients that she trying to give me. I appreciate the casual manner in which she does it. I do not currently possess the courage to look in a mirror right now, but it is impossible to look better than how I feel. In the past days, nutrition had been pointless. But now I can see that it has importance for the nurse. That it will make her feel better, more than it will for me. So, I eat, regardless of the muscle cramps plaguing my stomach.

I see her add a pinch of salt in my orange juice, “What the fu-”

She puts the glass next to me, “You don't need a world renowned physician to see that you are like, less hydrated than a bag of sand. I don't think that giving you a bottle of an electrolyte replenishing drink would end up in anything other than vo-”

I contain my smile, “I hear you loud and clear, nurse Hollis.”

“Don't get too comfortable, you're getting a gross electrolyte replenishing drink as soon as you are done with this.”

There is a strange silence that settles. The type between two people who feel that the other now knows too much. I take pleasure in it, all the same, not knowing what there is to say. Not knowing if there is anything I could say to her at all. Exhaustion is currently all my body can acknowledge. Once my plate is finished I feel a certain obscurity, a haze, that makes me want to curl up on the kitchen floor and sleep. But I know the walk home will be rough so I take the dirty plate and put it gently in the sink.

I slip my hands into the pockets of the borrowed pajama pants, “I should get going.”

She almost spits out her sip of hot chocolate, “What?” She quickly gets up and the serious look on her face, while covered in polka dot pajamas, almost looks endearing. She puts her hands on her hips, “Sit down right now.”

I am dumbfounded by the sudden fierceness in her face and the calm commanding tone in her voice. I simply sit back down, facing her.

She puts her hands on the table, and looks at me, steady and resolute. “We need to set things straight. I'm not going to pretend last night didn't happen. I know you might -”

I can see myself in the psych ward. Even sleeping on a cold park bench seems like a better option. “I wouldn't have jumped. I was feeling out of it, and now I feel much better, thanks to a night of sleep and breakfast.”

She frowns, “Stop it, Carmilla. I'm not dumb. Trust me,” her laugh is bitter and it burns, “I know a suicide letter when I see it. Any attempt to convince me that what yesterday was was anything other than that won't work.”

I give in, nod and snarl, “So what then? Are the ambulances already on their way, nurse? Are you going to visit me during your break while I am locked up in isolation? Are you going to wipe my slobbering face when I am all fucked up on sedatives?”

Expecting to get a rise out of her, hoping she will kick me out. Hoping that this temporary type of caring about my well being will not give place to some false hope I cannot live with anymore. That I will not turn into a patient in the eyes of the only other person who truly sees me as equal. Or perhaps now, did.

Instead, she looks down and sighs just so softly, “I won't do that. But you know that I should. That if a person is a danger to themselves or others, they can legally force hospitalization. For their own good.” She looks at me and it is hard to understand how in her determination, she can look at me with such a pleading look. “You know that's not what I want to do. So, I'm offering something else.”

I focus on the small stain on ink on the table, trying to not feel trapped under my now limited options.

“I'm offering this because I know what mental illness looks like. Because I feel like this was most likely situational based and not secondary to mental health issue. I don't think that hospitalizing you would help much, if at all. So, here it is. It seems that you are, like, major hard headed and can't catch a clue to save your life. Like, literally. But I'm going to say it officially because it's part of the offer. I'm offering you to live with us until you get back on your feet. I mean that's the reason I turned our storage room into a bedroom. Heck, I even let you choose the color of the paint. So, you could live with us, and get better and I wouldn't have to worry if you're okay or not. Alive or not.”

I do not know how long I look at her, trying to determine the extent of her sincerity. Trying to figure out what she gets out of this deal. “I can't pay rent, Laura. I cannot contribute in any way that is significant. I cannot be reduced simply another one of your patients.”

She shakes her head, frustrated. “If you were one of my patients, you would be wearing an unflattering blue gown and I would have to ask you questions about your bowel movements. You don't need to contribute, I am offering something I can easily manage to give you. Once you're back on your feet we can go all roommate and start a chore wheel and stuff. But for now-”

“What about Xena? We can barely tolerate spending two minutes together. For fuck sakes, she will probably grab me by the scruff of my neck and drag me to the nearest dumpster first the moment she can.”

She runs a hand through her messy morning hair, “No, she won't. We've already talked about this. A week before we started fixing up the guest bedroom. She wasn't sure at first, but she made up her mind a few weeks back.”

My mouth opens, astounded, “How long have you been planning this?”

She shrugs nonchalantly, “Since I found out you lived in a building a breath away from collapse.”

“What about Mircalla?”

“I've always wanted a cat and you can be on litter duty.”

I cannot manage to find another excuse. I think I do not want to. “You barely know me. For all you know I could go all Red Ripper one night -”

Her hand hits the table gently but impatiently, “But I do know you, Carmilla. We've been seeing each other regularly for months. And of course, I know your story just as much as you know mine, but I know you. I know you're good. I've heard so much from Perry and from the patients that you helped to bring into the hospital and the EMTs you've spoken to. Stop pretending there's like this horrible monster hidden under your skin. I've seen the way take such interest in how my day went, no matter how boring. I've felt the way you rub my back softly when you think I've fallen asleep. No one deserves to be on the streets, and certainly not you. I can't just let you go and -”

She bites the corner of her lip, “I won't let you go.” Her voice is low and gentle but firm, “It would haunt me. So you need to stay. With me. And you'll get better and you'll get back on your feet.”

I feel the need to put my ear to her chest, to drink the certainty and optimism in her words. I want to feel the warmth of her skin against my palms reminding me that this is not something I can wake up from. “I will pay you back for this, some day, even if it is with my last breath.”

She squeals, getting out of her chair rapidly to wrap her arms around me. I fear how much I am growing to crave the proximity. It is so much less terrifying to admire her from afar. I put my hand weakly on the small of her back. I pray my fingers do not tighten against her and betraying the truth of how important her presence has become. How her name cannot be replaced as easily as it was before.

I cough, trying to look anywhere but in those hopeful and carefree eyes. “So are you going to set up ground rules or what?”

She actually makes me sign a contract. Well, not an official contract but she makes me sign under a list of rules she writes on the back of a magazine with a permanent marker. Regardless it feels as official as it can get. I had expected the rules to make me feel trapped. Cornered. Instead, it feels like a weight is lifted. The guidelines bring a certain feeling of familiarity. They are things I can easily do, much easier than the things I have been doing for the past years.

I think about few things I actually have in my backpack, that currently sits next to the doors pathetically, “I need to go back to get my stuff.”

She nods, “We will. Can we go tonight? We'll borrow Danny's car. Until then we can just… take it easy. You can borrow some of my clothes and we can bring your hydration up.”

“You're not working today?”

She shakes her head, “I called last night and took the weekend off.”

I laugh bitterly, “I must truly look like shit then, for you to take some days off.”

 _Rule #1- We have to either be honest or silent. No lies allowed._ She bites her lip, “Pretty horrible, actually. When was the last time you ate?”

“This morning.”

She looks at the ceiling, “Before that.”

“Few days ago.”

“Carm...”

  
I reply impassively, “I didn't want to waste food, considering,” I gesture towards myself, “But now that seems only stupid, as I feel as shitty as ever.”

She gives me a small smile, “I don't know about the rest, but I think I can help you in the fundamental needs department.”

The day passes in a blur. She makes sure I always have a glass of smoothie or a water bottle at reach. Every three hours, precisely, she brings me a snack. She rushes around the apartment like she probably does on a busy shift. It is only after my gloriously, satisfying shower when I threaten to tie her to the sofa with duct tape that she finally sits down next to me. We watch the show in silence, I break it only once to ask her which one of the nurses on the show will become the vintage lesbian. She laughs at my impatience. It almost makes it seem like this is just another one of our Friday night hang out. But it has been three hours since the last snack and she quickly gets up, reminding me of why I am here. I put the now finished avocado next to me. I stare at the screen but my mind is elsewhere.

I am surprised by the softness in my voice, “I hate having to depend on someone else. I just can't afford to. If I do, and this arrangement fails – I think I would rather have nothing.” I cannot look at her, and attempt to focus on the television, instead.

I almost expect a rant or a dismission of my uneasiness and concerns. She simply threads her fingers with mine, with the caution and gentleness one might use with a withering flower. But it doesn't make me feel fragile nor fading. I feel a pulse between my fingers and I am not sure if it is hers or my own. Either way, with every beat, it reminds me that I am here. And being here means that what I am feeling is real. Her voice is sad but she is so, so warm, “I know. If I was in your place, I would probably just hate it too. But you have to understand that I'm not going to kick you out. No matter the reason. You can depend on this; having your own place, food and access to any room. Well, except Danny's. You can depend on me, Carm.”

“What if we start to hate each other?”

She shrugs, “We'll separate the shared spaces with caution tape.”

I wish she would understand that it is not that easy, “What if I fight the amazon and she kicks me out?”

“I'll go with you. I can manage to have an apartment for myself, with the money I'm making. I decided to live with Danny once I moved into the city mostly because I didn't want to live alone.”

I sigh, “Alright.” It's getting harder to distance myself from the idea that maybe, for this little while, I have found a place to live.

She gasps, “Oh gosh, I never thought I'd see the day. I have lived long enough to win in an argument with Carmilla. Let me contact the press.”

“Dork.”

She smiles that dorky smile with her dorky face, “A true winner.”

She doesn't let go of my hand, and I don't have the will to do it either. The door opens and in comes Xena in her scrubs.

Laura turns around but doesn't move from the couch, “Oh hey Danny. How was your day?”

She drops her back with a grunt, “I spent half of it wishing I had never taken that position. Some days I think I would rather have six hemorrhaging patients than stay one minute more in the office.”

She winces, “That bad?”

Red shakes her head as she makes her way to the kitchen, “And then some. At one point I even asked around if anyone had IVs to install.”

“You could always apply for a regular position. There is a -”

“No. It's okay. The girls are kind of depending on me, you know? It's just so hard pleasing both the big boss and the staff.”

She smiles at the tall one before squeezing my hand slightly, “Look who agreed to become our roommate!”

It is then that Xena looks at me. I wait for her words like they might cut into this moment of vulnerability like a butcher's knife.

“Oh. Cool.” She grabs an apple from the fridge, “Took you long enough.”

In this moment, I could fucking hug the spine out of that giant. I am infinitely grateful for her casual words, bringing a sense of normality. Like this elaborate plan that Laura cooked up could be possible. That it could work. I raise an eyebrow, willing my face to stay neutral, “What can I say – I like playing hard to get.”

She snorts, “Whatever. Just don't trash my room or play your stupid emo music after eleven and we'll be good.”

I turn to the small nurse. Her broad smile makes her look like herself once again. Like the stranger that had walked into LaF's room to take their vital signs. It is there, once again, as if it never left. Hope blooms and flowers in my chest, whispering her name.

 

* * *

 

My heart is beating rapidly but I try to ignore it. I try not to think about how I did not think I would be back here. But I am. I get out of Xena's obnoxious SUV, still surprised that Laura's legs could reach the gas peddle.  
“Do you need glasses, cutie?”

She tilts her head to the side, “No? I don't think so. Why?”

“You drive like shit. The true miracle is that my supper didn't make a surprise reappearance.”

She looks up at the clear sky, “You're so annoying. I drive very well. I'll let you know that driving in the city -”

I raise an eyebrow, “Oh please go on. I am sure your excuses are as good as your driving.”

She grabs my arm, tugging me towards Silas, “If you continue with the mocking of my driving, I will let you walk home.”

I laugh, “As if you'd let me walk back. Your little nursing heart wouldn't let you.”

She nods, “Yeah, you're right. It wouldn't. So I would just follow you in the comfortable warmth of Danny's car.”

I smile at the back of her head. I then lead her into Silas, her arm still wrapped around my wrist. As if, if this building collapsed, I could keep her from falling with it. Once inside, I lead her to the door hidden behind a mess of things and a filthy mattress. I see her eyebrows fly towards her hairline.

“That's where it was.”

I look at her quizzically. “What do you mean?”

She makes a hand gesture towards the floor, “Well, I knew you stayed here. Like, I knew you were here, but I never found where you were actually staying.”

“How did you figure that out, Laura Walters?”

“I came here and I heard you swear in a very unladylike fashion.”

I take her hand, bowing slightly, “I am very ladylike, thank you very much. Ready to see my palace?”

She looks up at the ceiling, trying to look annoyed. I see the light twitch in the edges of her lips. It brings one to mine, regardless of the situation. The wooden stairs creak under our feet, and a small mess of black fur runs towards me. I cannot help my small sincere smile, once I take her in my arms, her purring almost echoing in the basement. I turn to her, to show her how ridiculous Mircalla is being, but her face stops the words from coming out. With a pale face, a slightly opened mouth and unblinking eyes, her eyes appear to scrutinize every small detail. I cannot tell if it is shock or disgust or something else altogether that appears on her face.

My brows come together, utterly confused. This has always appeared to me as a very decent place to live. I turn back to the room, and for the first time, I see it through an others eyes. I see this place, as she might. The walls are broken and stained, the roof made of rotten wood. Tears of ice are frozen in their tracks, as they make their way down the two small windows. The glass is dirty, stained and it is pieces of wood and tape preventing the wind from passing through them. The yoga mat upon which I have slept on for so long, looks nonexistent, under tattered and stained blankets. The floor it partly cements, partly dirt. The improvised pillow lies pitifully at one side of my bed. It is an old t-shirt, filled with unwearable pieces of clothing, laying on top of my skateboard. My books are piled on the side, serving as a night table. Sitting on the pile are my reading glasses, broken and broken again, only to be repaired with medical tape. In LaF and Perry's absence, I now see how little there is here.

“Home sweet home.” It is bitter because it looks nothing of a home. Nothing to the warm glow of her apartment, her scented candles and music playing softly in the background. I know this. But I feel it, I felt it the moment I made my way down the stairs. This place is home. Or was. It shouldn't be so, but I cannot help the fact that it undeniably is. Even if I know that tonight, I will sleep on a mattress, and not worry if I have to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night.

Her brows come together, but she is pouting and she looks so miserable, “Yeah.”

I nudge her with my shoulder, “Do you want me to give you a tour?”

She shakes her head, giving me a slight smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes, “You're a polite host. But I guess I'll have to pass.”

I nod. I quickly pack my things in the bags she brought, far too many since she ignored my suggestion. I desperately need us to leave before LaF and Perry come back, knowing it will just make it that much harder. It is my need to not become a burden to them, that makes me determinately round up my small pile of belongings. Even if, in its irony, it means becoming a burden to Laura. With a small note left on their bed, I turn back to the small, golden haired nurse, and we make our way back to her apartment.

 

* * *

 

The guest room doesn't look any less empty with my belongings placed neatly on the shelf. My room. I do not know if it is desperation or faith that makes me trust her when she says that this room is mine. It feels so incredibly strange to be sleeping alone. The silence. It hums in my ears most uncomfortably. Mircalla sleeps against my side soundlessly. I find myself craving for any sound, other than my own breathing. My life, before leaving Mother, had been one of solitude. How can you yearn explicitly for what you have never known? But, for more than a year, I have been living and sleeping, in constant contact with others. I fell to sleep to Perry soft whispers as she talked about everything and nothing to an almost snoring LaF. Bonnie's contant movement brought me comfort that helped me back to sleep. The mattress almost feels too soft, the blankets too comfortable. Simply put, I feel guilty. Guilty of my luck. Guilty to be cared for by one that truly owes me nothing. Her generosity both overwhelms and appeases me. I look at the alarm clock next to the bed, for what appears to be the thousandth time. 3:26 am.

I take one blanket with me, careful not to wake Mircalla. Guilt rises up in my throat once again, like bile. My sock-clad feet carry me to the nurse's room all the same. I put my ear to her door, satisfied once I hear her deep breathing. I make my way into the room soundlessly, settling in the small space between her desk and the wall. Exhaustion claims me then, once I am covered by the cozy blankets and my ears are filled with her soft snores. I will attempt to wake before she does tomorrow, to avoid having to explain.

“Carm?”

I jump at the sound, sitting up swiftly. “Sorry, I -”

She shakes her head, propping it up on her arm. She looks at me, heavy-eyed, her hair messy. Unmistakably endearing. “I wasn't sure if it was a dream.”

I try to hide my wince, “You are dreaming, cupcake, and sadly this is an incredibly dull pg-13 dream.”

She huffs, “Yeah, make fun of me while crashing my one girl sleeping party.”

“Your roommate was snoring too loud. I could hear her through the walls.”

She gives me a sleepy smile, “Really unconvincing lies still break the rule, Carmilla.”

She doesn't question why I am here, and for that I am thankful.

Her head falls down on her pillow, angling her face so that her eyes find mine, “So are you joining me or am I going to find out how I've been missing out on how comfortable the wooden floor are?”

I am up in a flash, in my drowsiness not even hesitating. She holds the blankets partly up and I slip in next to her. I try to hide the embarrassment I feel for my actions by facing the wall. Hoping so desperately she will fall back asleep.

Her voice is small and sleep ridden, “Carm?”

I turn to face her, the proximity softening my features. “Yeah?”

She takes her lower lip between her teeth and I cannot help but focus on the glistening wetness left on it, the way it returns almost instantly to a light pink. “I'm happy you're here.”

My hand brushes away a loose strand of hair, threatening to fall before I can stop myself. I hope she understands what it means, how needed those words are. How my weakness for her always seems to turn into strength. “I bet you say that that to all the homeless girls you bring home.”

She smiles and I ache because I know that even if I do not have much, that smile is mine. “Only the sarcastic almost doctors who pretend to be all cold and detached while hiding that they are actually big softies.”

My eyes trace the slope of her nose, the edge of her jaw, the smallest dimples created by her smile, “Sometimes I think I imagined you, out of desperation or severe dehydration.”

She giggles slightly, “I think you could dream up something better than little old me.” She grins, “Seeing your taste in actresses, she'd probably have a way bigger chest-”

I shake my head, “I don't think I could.”

Her tone is teasing, but I see the small blush on her cheeks, “Softie.”

“Just don't go spreading it around, nurse.”

She bites the inside of her cheek, “Yeah, you're right. I think I'll keep that to myself.”

It is her that turns away from me then. I do not move, my tired eyes following the rise and fall of her chest. All I can feel is her warmth, her smell so deeply in me that I can taste it. I realize then, that it is people who make a home. The realization chokes me because I know it shouldn't have taken this much time to realize this. But it hits me, with such vitality, that it leaves me raw. In this fleeting moment in time, it does not bring fear or apprehension. It feels like fertile soil, warm under a summer's heat, a promise. I shift closer to her, trying to not lose my fragile grasp on the feeling. I am not alone. Her arm reaches behind her back, searching until my hand is held in hers. She waits a moment, giving me the opportunity to take it back. But I can't and mostly I do not want to. She brings my arm around her, threading her fingers with mine as my hand lays on her stomach. She moves backward until her back is flush and so close to me, I fear she will feel the rapid beating of my heart. I nudge my nose deeper into her hair, trying to slowly breathe in, to calm its rate. She is so soft under my fingers, seeming so small under my wiry warms. The desire to protect her sometimes feels stronger than my need to protect myself, and so I slip my other arm under her pillow. For now, it is okay to want to know nothing, but her.

I chuckle, as I repeat her words back to her, against her ear, “Softie.”

“Damn you, Carmilla.”

I tug her closer, “And damn you right back, Laura Hollis.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND so it is, a week and a day later and with considerably less intensity than the last chapter. Thank you, again and again and again for the comments and the kudos, that remind me that I cannot just let this story go without an ending. I hope you enjoyed, let me know what you would like to see, know or if you fell into the pits of Clexa hell as I undeniably have.


	16. Chapter 16

 

It takes eight days to accept that this has become my life, although I still do not believe I deserve it. I doubt I ever will again. Most of the days after my arrival, my admission at Laura Hollis General Hospital, are a blur of sleep and trying to dismantle my own thoughts. I get out of bed when Laura does, which is to say, varying greatly. She alternates between night and evening shifts. I try to pretend I ignore that it is to give my now absurd sleeping schedule some sort of normalcy. I eat breakfast with her, regardless if it is at nine in the morning or one in the afternoon. I eat with her when she comes back. Xena is here when she is not, as she works mostly day shifts now. I have exchanged my observation of strangers and places with them. I quickly learn the small queues. When Red has had a horrible shift, she kicks off her shoes and doesn't place them properly on the mat afterwards. It's best to avoid her for a few hours after that.

As I'm lying down on my bed, I look at the clock once more. I only have two hours before Laura comes back from work. Red is in her room, soft french music slipping through the edges of her door. Another sign that this day wasn't the best. Once my set of keys, that Laura got me a few days ago, are slipped into the pocket of my backpack, I make my way out of the apartment. There are a few reasons why I still go dumpster diving. I go through the list as I walk towards my usual spots. I am learning guilt, it seems, as I am only able to take the food that is given to me. Regardless of the fact that they made it clear that I was entitled to anything in the kitchen that wasn't labelled with a name or in a lunch box. It doesn't feel right, to easily take what is theirs. This hidden routine allows me, albeit clumsily, to attempt to merge who I have been for the past year and who, by living at Laura's, makes me. She is trying to give me space, that much I have realized. I have also realized that this is not really something she can do with ease, judging by how often I find her eyes on me. I feel as though I should have a plan.

It seems that access to warmth has made me less tolerant of the cold. My backpack is heavy and my tights strain and tighten with the added weight. I make it back to the apartment before Laura. I make sure to hide my wet boots in the closet and my snow covered coat in my wardrobe. Every time I shower, I am struck by how utterly satisfying it feels. I let my mind grow empty until all I feel is the warmth of the water falling down my back. Until the only thing my senses pick up is the smell of Laura's body wash. The giant's music flows through the wall and although I do not understand the words in their entirety, I can understand why it soothes her. Obviously, even the towels are absurdly soft. I hear the music stop suddenly, only to be replaced by the small nurse's voice.

"I survived, we'll leave it at that. How about Carmilla? How was she today?"

Xena sighs, "Same as the last days. She barely comes out - and trust me, I've made my efforts. And, well. I don't want to... well I don't see her eat, other than when we eat together. I think I would know if she ate when I wasn't looking, she would probably leave her garbage everywhere and -"

It feels incredibly odd, to have them fret over my diet. My physical health or needs. I do not know if it is anger or frustration or shame that is growing in my gut. I wish that what made me interesting for others, my worth, wasn't solely the thing I've been trying to forget since I have been on the streets. It's easy to forget that homelessness isn't normal when you're with a group of people living life as you are. I go to my room without acknowledging either of them. I lay on my bed and I boil. Why does it matter, so much, to be simply nothing more than just someone she is supporting? Why does it matter if all my needs are met? The answer rests at the bottom of my stomach, heavy and relentless.

Worry is etched deeply on her face as she comes in, "Carm?"

"What do you want, Laura?"

She takes a hesitant step towards my bed, wearing her ridiculous floral scrubs and a yellow cardigan. I ignore the constriction in my chest as I guiltily take in the sight of her. The messiness of her bun, the loose strands rebelling at the hair tie, is one of the signs that she has had a hard shift. "Well, first, to maybe not use my name when you're mad at me. I've worked very hard for that, you know, so like -"

I look up at the ceiling, pretending any semblance of anger hadn't dissipated the moment she came into the room. She sits down on the edge of my bed. "I am not angry."

She tugs on the watch on her right wrist, "Then you heard me talking to Danny and it bothers you that I'm talking about you."

"Yeah or something."

Her eyes are on me and it makes it so much harder to ignore her. To distance myself from her discomfort. "Why?"

It is her hand on mine that stops me from getting up, leaving the room. "I was only asking her because I don't want to harass you with a thousand boring questions." The back of her fingers rub softly against my knuckles, "Because I just want to make sure you're okay."

I look at my small pile of belongings on the dresser. "I have a roof and food. I am okay."

She sighs softly, "We both know it's not that easy. But you know, rule number two -"

Embedded in my memory, "You're allowed to take what is offered. I know." I lie back on the bed with furrowed brows.

She lies down next to me. I do not know if the contrast between my black and her bright coloured clothing is symbolic or simply ironic. "What do you want, Carmilla?"

My response in instantaneous, "To go back to school. To achieve something after all this mess."

She turns her body to face me, a smile digging into her cheeks, "Perfect. So that's what we'll do."

"We?"

She nods enthusiastically, "We'll get you a job, once you feel up to it and -"

I swallow thickly, wanting to look anything else than the optimism radiating from the small nurse, "I won't be able to. I have literally no job experience. I haven't worked, officially, a day in my life."

She shakes her head, "It doesn't matter. Trust me, we'll make you a hell of a resumé and I'm guessing that two years of medicine must count for something."

The air is slowly expelled from my lungs, "I do trust you, Laura. That is the problem."

She tugs my hand onto her stomach, tracing random patterns in my palm. From her affinity with physical contact, I can barely understand how Xena isn't annihilated by affection for this small girl. "Oh shush. It's not a problem." Her smile widens, "It's actually a really good thing. Stop brooding."

She clears her throat, "So are you going to start eating three normal meals -"

"I am."

She frowns, "Why are you lying?"

I huff, "I'm not, cupcake." I open my bag, showing her the contents.

She appears to be a total loss, looking at the bruised fruits and packages. "What the heck? Where did you get that?"

I quickly explain my routine, avoiding eye contact altogether. Until I feel her palm against my cheek, "Carm, that's all good for the environment and like hella resourceful but you don't need to anymore. I've got you, you know.”

I nod, not trusting my voice. She makes her way into my bed later that night, clutching her fuzzy blanket against her chest. I wonder how it can be, that two vastly different people can need the exact same thing.

 

* * *

 

Tomorrow will officially make the third week that I have lived here. My routine melts together with Laura's. She wakes me up, with her incredibly irritating enthusiasm. I find myself waiting for her to come back, staying close to the entrance when her shift is done. Like some over enthusiastic puppy. Disgusting. She has officially stolen my favourite oversized sweater and I have taken her favourite plaid shirt as revenge. A mug of coffee is given to me before I even sit down at the table in the morning and a steaming mug of hot chocolate often waits for her on the coffee table when she comes back from work. I have slept and lived in a room filled with more strangers and acquaintances than walls and yet I have never felt so close to the life of another. So deeply intertwined.

The door creaks as it opens and it does not surprise me. I'd be lying if I said I hadn't paid close attention to the familiar beat of her feet echoing in the corridor. “Carm-”

She turns to face me, scowling at my feigned unimpressed look, “Carmilla Karnstein, I know you think that you're all cool and rebel and above the law – but this?” She gives me a clear view of the background of her phone, “This is not only trespassing -”

I shrug, smirking at the picture, “It's not trespassing if you leave your phone in my room, cutie.”

She frowns, but I see the smile fighting against her cheeks as she walks towards her room. “It is also identity theft. You can imagine my surprise when my colleague borrowed my phone and commented on this very flattering picture of you in our bathroom. With a very inaccurate imitation of my work hairdo. In my scrubs.” She turns back to point an accusing finger in my direction. “Which, by the way, I do not wear inside out and mismatched.”

I hear her stumble around in her room as she changes out of her scrubs. She then makes her way to the bathroom, washing her hands like she usually does. Like she probably does a thousand times in her shift. She lets herself fall face first next to me. With her face away from me, I let the smile grow on my face. “And since you were so very offended by my portrayal of you, you changed the picture right away.”

She groans and I chuckle at the sight. A muffled, “Mircalla looks cute in the picture” is her reply.

“Mm, right. _Of course_. And you, obviously, do not have an absurd amount of pictures of her in your phone from which you could choose from.”

I yelp as I feel her teeth biting my thigh slightly, “Shush. I'm tired and you are tiring me faster than my thirteen patients and their respective families.”

I only laugh, letting the tip of my fingers move up and down her spine as she moves her head onto my lap. I try to ignore the relief I feel from her presence, the lightness I feel when she is here. I try to pretend that although she doesn't have the ability to fix an existence, she seems to effortlessly make it, my own, easier. I disregard the obvious truth, so that the words, I miss you, I miss you when your annoying voice doesn't fill the room, doesn't come clumsily out of my mouth. “How was it?”

She turns to face me. I resist the urge to let my fingers brush against the soft skin covering her jaw, her cheeks. “It was good. But I think one of my patients, you know, the one I told you about with his wife -”

“The one who slept on a chair for a week before you transferred her into a private room?”

She nods, with a slight smile, “Yeah. I think he's going to die soon. Probably tonight. He was having periods of apnea today. I know that like, it's to be expected and that's the whole end of life care thing, but it just... it's just sad. I've taken care of him and his wife for so long,” She wraps one of my curls around her finger absentmindedly, “I thought I'd be there when he left. It's silly but I would have liked to have been.”

I simply nod.

She sighs softly, “He made jokes, although not always appropriate, until like, the very end. He was like, so proud, you can imagine the type. But he always let his wife comb his hair into place. They're good people, you know?”

And she is so soft, it's a wonder she hasn't been broken. As so many others have. “As are you, creampuff.”

Her face softens before she looks away, “Heck, maybe that is the meaning of life. Finding someone who will comb your hair when you're not able to. Being able to joke even if death is in the room.”

I bring my lip between my teeth, considering her words. “I think you might be on to something, nurse Hollis.”

She smiles but I can see that her mind is elsewhere, “If you – well if you cannot find a charming girl to comb your hair when your time comes, I'll do it. Fuck, I'll even braid it.”

“How very romantic -”

I clasp my hand on her mouth, feeling her mouth bloom into a smile underneath my palm, “Shut up. Do not make regret this offer.”

Her enthusiastic response is muffled under my hand.

“Thank you, cupcake, for respecting me by being silent and -” I feel a wetness on my hand and jerk my hand back, my face twisted in disgust. “You insolent, repulsive child.”

She grins triumphantly. As a revenge I chug her hot chocolate, ignoring her pleas.

 

* * *

 

I drop our bags as soon as we make our way inside. “Seriously, you really didn't have to. I swear to all the gods ever praised that I will pay you back -”

She grabs my leather jacket, hanging it next to hers, “I told you like a billion times, and for someone who whines about how I can't keep my mouth shut, it's okay. We can't have you giving your job applications all punk rock. Unless you're planning to apply somewhere like, ultra alternative -”

I look up at the ceiling, “I do not _whine_ about how you can't keep your mouth shut. I just ask that if you are to talk to me while crashing in my bed, in the dark of night, you speak of things other than the mental health of fictional characters.”

She huffs and crosses her arms over her chest, “I was worried for her, Carmilla! She's gone through so much -”

I pick up our bags, dropping hers in her room before spilling the contents of my own onto my bed. “For like an hour, creampuff. You worried for an hour,” I yell back at her.

She comes into my room, as I am putting my new clothes away with uttermost carefulness. She bites her lip, her lips curling upwards, “That one looked good on you.”

I smirk at the blazer, “Is that so, Laura?”

She lets herself fall lazily on my bed, “Whatever.”

I pick up with a finger the suspenders she convinced me to get. By that I mean she shoved it in the small pile of clothes in my arms and told me if I did not approve she would block me from her Netflix. “Are you grooming me into being your soft butch -”

A pillow is thrown at my face. “You. Are. Such. A. Pain.”

The clothes are lined neatly in my closet, “Which only makes your masochistic tendencies even more humiliating.”

I pull my sweater off, opting for Laura's plaid shirt instead.

“You look good, Carm.” I turn to face her, her eyes scanning my body, analyzing.

I roll the sleeves, “Is that you finally admitting that I look better than you in this?”

“Yes – no.” She groans and I snort at her obvious discomfort. “I just mean that you look good. You gained some weight and it looks - frick. Can you just take the compliment and leave me alone.”

I turn around, trying to hide the possible blush on my cheeks. “You are warming my cold heart, Hollis.”

I look down at the tank top I borrowed from Laura weeks ago. I haven't weighed myself, but I can see that I am filling it, considerably more than I was when I arrived. It's somewhat less difficult to look at my reflection in mirrors now.

The door buzzes, and I frown at the nurse. “Were you expecting someone?”

She looks at me with that same confusion as she gets up. “No, and I know that Danny has her keys, or else she – maybe it's that guy down the hall who got crazy drunk again and -”

She presses the intercom button, “Who is this?”

  
The words are barely audible, “Looking for Carmilla -”

She looks at me, “Were _you_ expecting someone?”

I shake my head and shrug. “Well, you're here, so.” And that is proof in itself of how pathetic I have become.

A broad smile is sent my way as she presses another button, “That's...” She tilts her head, “Unexpectedly sweet.”

We awkwardly wait by the door and she grabs Danny's baseball bat from the closet. I chuckle and open the door.

I am blinded by a mess of ginger curls and animal prints. “Perry?”

Her arms are wrapped even tighter around me, “Carmilla! I can't explain how much we've-”

LaF's laugh cuts her off, “Give her some space, Per. I'm starting to get jealous.”

I don't know if it's the way my body has regained some health that allows emotions to well up in my throat. Their faces light up something in me, a nostalgia and a sense of belonging. Like visiting the house, you were raised in. I drink in the sight of them and not a single thing has changed. As if not a moment has passed in these past weeks. Perry is wearing her typical turtleneck under her fur coat with her broad and wild smile, hands bunched into fists excitedly in front of her. LaF's hair is a mess and they are grinning like that time we found bottles of cheap wine while dumpster diving.

I extend my hand to them. They laugh as they grab it, putting their other arm around me almost as tightly has Perry did. “Happy to see you, goth princess.”

I am chuckling as I remember the girl standing behind me. Laura is still holding the baseball bat stiffly. “Well, this seems like the opportune time for you to meet nurse Hollis.”

She sends a glare my way, its threat significantly diminished by her smile as she extends her hand towards Perry, “It's Laura, actually. Nice to finally see you in person.”

LaF sends me a smug, knowing look. Perry takes her hand between hers, “Splendid! I can't thank you enough for the times you helped me at work. You are, quite frankly, one of the kindest -”

A blush settles on Laura's cheeks as she waves dismissively, “It's all good really. I'm impressed at how easily you managed to do everything, with like -”

I am unable to feel my heart clench, almost painfully, as I take in the scene. The incredibly sweet way Laura talks to both of them. It seems more like they are old friends than strangers. It feels like two separate halves of my life has been made whole. It is impossible, not to look at the golden-haired girl, like this all hasn't been thanks to her. How I wouldn't have lived to see those two crazy redheads again if it wasn't for her. LaF elbows me gently, whispering in my ear, “So when's the wedding, you gross kitten.”

I give them a soft shove, “Good to see you're still a dick.”

They simply smile, “Well Per, do I tell her or do I leave you the honors?”

She turns to me excitedly, “We're bringing you and Mircalla home!”

Utter confusion fills my face.

LaF rolls their eyes, looking at Perry fondly, “What she means is that we bought a camper truck. It's not huge and we'll probably be in each others personal space way more than we should but – it's still ours. To top it off, Perry cleaned it so thoroughly that it's practically aseptic now. ”

My mouth falls open. The word ours is repeating in my head. I do not hesitate, “Okay. Give me a few minutes to gather my things.”

LaF takes one look at the nurse, “Good. We'll... wait downstairs.”

I quickly go to my room, shoving my stuff into my bag.

“What? No – you're kidding me. You're not leaving for real?” Her voice sounds both angry and desperate.

I swallow thickly, eyes focused on the stuff I'm trying to fit into the bag. “It is for the best. I don't know how long this arrangement -”

She grabs my bag into her arms, forcing me to look at her. I see the way her angry eyes are holding back tears. In that moment, I am broken again. Into pieces so small, spread around in me in such chaotic manner, I fear I won't ever be able to put myself back together. Maybe this image will be forever scarred into my mind. It only makes my skin grow harder, knowing that this is better for both of us. She, as good as she has been, is an uncertainty. And I am heavy. Just so heavy.

“Give it back.”

She shakes her head stubbornly. “No. I won't let you go and live in a fucking camper with two other people – like how can you even -”

“Whatever, keep it, Laura.” I shake my head, to go to the nurse's room, to get Mircalla who is sleeping on her bed. As she usually is. She blocks the door, knuckles white as she grips my bag.

“Move.”

Her face bunches up pitifully, “No. I won't. You just – you just don't get it. You need to stay here. We're – you're doing good here. You have everything you need and I just can't go back to the way it was -”

I take a deep breath, trying to calm the storm brewing in my chest, “It is not your choice to make, Laura. I cannot just stay here like a parasite -”

She bites back her lip as the tears slowly make their way down her cheeks, “But you're not a parasite. You know,” Her breathing is shallow and rapid, “All these years I've been going to sleep, staring at my ceiling, not ever able to sleep. Either searching my brain for an illness that may or may not be written in my genetic code or worrying to death about my mother and how easy it is for anyone to die. Or praying to some imaginary magician that she will come back to herself and it won't be just that impossible to convince myself that I can just be. That whatever emotion won't just evolve into illness. _And_ _you_. You just appeared and it's the first time in my life that I've been losing sleep over something – someone- that, yeah, makes me worry, but makes me smile in those ungodly hours. That just holds me even when I don't ask for it. Even if you don't know how much I need it. Even if that's not your job -”

My nails are digging into my palms, “Laura, I am not saying I do not want to see you anymore. I am simply saying that this,” I gesture to the room behind me, “Is not mine. I have become a lot of things. I have been a lot of things. But I will not be reduced to a thief.”

She drops my bag and the sound echos in the room. “How can you say that -”

“I need to go, Laura.”

Her fists rub angrily at the tears falling from her eyes. I have never seen someone fight this hard for me. I am unable to look at her with anything but awe. This endless respect that expands and transforms into this simple adoration. The feeling is slippery and treacherous. I bite into my cheek, trying to hold back the exquisite way in which it always tries to pull me back to her.

I clear my throat, “Laura -”

She tenses at the sound, “Stop saying my name.”

I can feel my face soften, my body ready to give in to gravity, “No.”

Her shoulders shake with her angry sobs but her back remains straight, as if fighting against it. Her hand is shaking, as she puts it on my chest pushing me backwards. “You're an asshole, you know that?”

“Maybe I am.” I look down at the wooden floor, before bringing my gaze back to her. I realize then, the violence in tears. How they scorch and sear and we are too clumsy, too bad at living, to know what to do with them. To care for others wounds. “But you are beautiful and this ugly world will never deserve you.”

She lets outs a soft exhale. I am bracing for the words that will come next, my hands hanging pathetically at my sides. Instead, her hand clutches my shirt tightly, pulling me towards her. Time doesn't wait for me and before I can even understand, I feel her soft lips against mine. And she tastes like hunger and feels like cardiac reanimation. My heart is hammering against my chest, in a pitiful attempt to get closer to her. The air in my lungs feels untrustworthy and uncertain like it would vanish if she simply asked. My hands instinctively hide deeply into her hair, the tremble they once held finds its way to my lower lip. But it is pressed hard against hers and I don’t think she notices because I can feel the vibration of her surprised moan down to my core. My eyes are still open, a mess of shock and adrenaline, looking at her own, which are closed. Trusting. So incredibly vulnerable. Her make up slightly smudged, droplets clinging to her eyelashes. And I can only look at her, not understanding how a girl can make me feel like she can single-handedly defy all the laws of physics that I have learned in my life. The room is spinning and once I tug her lower lip between mine, I can’t help but close my eyes. To ground myself because now, it seems she tastes more like forgiveness and feels like the warmth of a thousand colours from the setting sun.

Her hand is clinging to the back of my neck as she brings her forehead against mine, “Please.” She releases her grip on my shirt, smoothing out the wrinkles gently, “If not for you, then for me.”

She doesn't open her eyes and I know she is trusting me with things that she will probably never be able to say. Her existence is impossible and yet, I feel the air from her lungs on my lips and the softness of her hair between my fingers. I can still taste her and I know then that she is a loss I just cannot bare.

“Okay.” My voice sounds weak in my ears, so low that I fear it won't reach her. “I'll stay.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh gosh. I didn't think I'd make it to this point. I got dumped and I feared I wouldn't want to write about the type of love that comes just so rarely, if at all. The type of thing that makes silly nurses like me ache. But I have and I'm infinitely thankful that this, writing, is not something that anyone can take from me. And so, I thank you, just so sincerely for all the comments and the kudos and taking your time to read this. It honestly means so much. Hope you enjoyed.


	17. Chapter 17

 

“Alright, you can rest.” I glare at Xena, who has officially proven to be worthy of her title. I slump back on the mat, feeling the cool air against the sheen of sweat covering every millimeter of my skin. Gross. I feel my abs throbbing following the exertion. She dramatically takes one of the heavier weights, rolling her eyes once again at the girl next to her who has been doing the same bicep curls for the past thirty minutes. “So, Wednesday Adams, are you going to tell me what happened?”

 

She throws me a towel before laying down on the bench, “Nothing happened.”

 

She counts as she extends her arms, “Right. So you just went from being each others disgusting life support to awkwardly staring at each other in silence.” A deep inhale fills her chest, “It's been a week, even if I were blind, I'm not an idiot.”

 

“It's not -” I bite the inside of my cheek. It hasn't been easy, pretending it hasn't affected me. Pretending to ignore the way she looks away purposefully keeps her eyes from meeting mine. I simply do not understand, especially when it all seems to come down to that moment in her bedroom days ago. “It's not for me to tell what happened.”

 

She snorts, letting go of the subject. “Well then, knowing you two, I guess I'll go to my grave not knowing.” She puts the weights back on the rack, her hand motioning for to me to lie on the bench.

 

Groaning for the thousandth time in the last hour, “Remind me why I agreed to this?”

 

Her hands rest on her hips, giving me a speech she has quite a few times before. “Well, first, I get you in free. Second, the summer society gym is the best in the city, owned by women for women. Don't even pretend you're not all about that. Third, you are desperate to find something to do while Laura ignores you and as you are waiting for a call back from your applications. And finally, it's good for your head.”

 

I let myself fall on the bench. “I have a hard time believing that.”

 

A small smile forms on her lips. “Yeah. Well, it works, trust me. It gets the anger out. And considering everything, I think it's easy to say that I feel it in you.” She looks away, almost like she is fearing my reaction. “Whatever. I guess you remind me of me.”

 

I know from what Laura has told me, that she has always been the most athletic one of the two. The tone of her voice makes me feel like it has been more than just a hobby. “How long have you been doing this?”

 

She hands me the weights, considerably smaller, looking away as she thinks, “Since I was seventeen? I think.”

 

For this small moment, there is only her voice, counting, and the strain on my muscles. A certain kind of peace, even if every fiber of my being is begging for me to find a bed and to not move for the next twenty-four hours. In that moment, I do not think about Laura. I do not think about the thousand steps I need to take before I reach any of my goals.

 

Once done, I put back the weights looking at her for further instructions. But she isn't looking at me or anything specific. She rubs the back of her neck absentmindedly. “It's Linda, my foster mom, that suggested it to me when I was younger. She –” She looks at me, waiting for me to stop her with a snarky comment.

 

She sighs when she realizes that all she is going to get out of me is an attentive silence. “Well, I think spending her life taking care of kids like me really just broke her. Cause most of us, we don't turn out right. It's hard when you're born in a fucked up mess not to become one. I almost did. I think if it wasn't for her and Laura and her family I probably would have.” She sits down on the mat, stretching. I mimic her movements with little enthusiasm.

 

A soft laugh falls out of her lips, “One day she just made me sit down and put the cards on the table. Blunt and direct, as she always was. By then, she had seen like three other kids grow up and end up in the same situation as their parents did. I can still remember it like it was yesterday, she told me, that I was angry. That I was living an angry life. But that anger is was not really an emotion. That it is more like a defence mechanism. To which I answered rudely. Because I was stupid and young and reckless and unable to recognize help when it was offered. But she explained to me, that it wasn't to defend yourself against harm, but more to hide the emotions underneath. The ones that hurt more than any word or fist ever could. She told me that I could keep on being angry and lash out and do irresponsible things or I could get the anger out and deal with what was truly bothering me. That's... what I did.”

 

I nod, and she continues. “When I think about the classes we had and everything I've read – I realize how typically I was acting. Cliché, you know. Like, I used to think I was so in love with Laura. But it's typical, for people like me. To latch on unreasonably to the first person who gives us affection, attention and support. That's not the type of relationship I want. I want better for myself. I want to end up better than my biologicals. And I don't want my kids having to relearn how to live so that they can do so properly.”

 

“She must be proud of you.”

 

A shrug. “I am trying to, to be someone I can be proud of. Have been since then.”

 

“Do you still see her?”

 

Once she is done stretching, she throws her towel over her shoulder. “Yeah. She's getting old now. Kind of all banged up by the accumulation of stress and bad habits. I help her manage her diabetes and blood pressure. She's moved from the house next to the one Laura was raised in but her dad still visits her. Keeps her company when I can't. I'm trying to pay back, you know.”

 

I see that never ending list of things I owe. “I get that.”

 

She looks at me, determined like this is a mantra she has said far too many times. “One day, we are given the chance to repay for the good that was done for us. I like to think that in the end, it balances out.”

 

“Homoeostasis?”

 

She nods. “Basic biology, right doc?”

 

I think about LaF, I see their fist coming to hit their chest, remembering vividly the echo it produced. How it was anything but hollow as I heard it vibrate from their chest into the quiet room. Looking away, “I feel like I owe so much more than I can give.”

 

When I look up, I feel like we are seeing each other for the first time. “Yeah. I feel you. But most often it's the little things that matter. Speaking of which, maybe you should make up with her. It would suck for you guys to continue being passive aggressive on her birthday.”

 

My mouth opens and closes dumbly as she stands up, “What? When?”

 

She chuckles lightly, extending me her hand, “Yeah, figured as much. It's next Saturday. I thought we might, hell I don't know, bound up as roommates and do something for her. She doesn't really – she doesn't really celebrate it much. Well, I just thought it would be cool if we actually did something this year. Especially since it's not just me and Laura anymore. Who knows, it could be fun.”

 

I nod, “I think I know someone who can help us out.”

 

* * *

 

I shake the package in my hands, trying to decipher its contents based on the sound. Considering it is LaF's it could actually be anything. The crisp cold air makes my airways feel raw. This is another moment I am thankful, that this temperature isn't a constant part of what I go back to. The retro, bruised up camper, clashes comically with the expensive vehicles parked around it. I simply smile at the sight, knowing that although I cannot thank them for all they have done, my connection with Laura has given them this. A place to stay as well.

 

My knocking rattles the door, and I almost fear for the hinges holding it.

 

“Come in!”

 

I snort at the scene, “Well hello happy campers.”

 

LaF looks at the ceiling before continuing to work on a dismantled laptop, “Hello to you too, domestication looks good on you, you ridiculous house cat.”

 

Perry quickly takes my coat before I can say a word, “Hello Carmilla, so nice for you to visit us.”

 

“You literally live in Laura's parking space.” I sit on the small beat-up sofa, “And do not pretend that I do not come here every day.”

 

She smiles broadly at me before giving me a cup of tea, “Either way, I'm very happy to see you.”

 

Leaning back, I try to mirror her broad smile, “As you were yesterday,” I toss LaF's package on the small table, “and the day before that and the day before -”

 

They rip the package open enthusiastically, “Finally. I was waiting on this part.” They turn to me, “So what are you doing for Laura's birthday?”

 

Sighing, utterly exasperated, “Good to know I'm the only one in this whole city that didn't know. I feel really good about the person that I am.”

 

LaF turns to me, an eyebrow raised, picking up instantly on the level of sarcasm in my response. “Really? Don't you follow her vlogs? She spent the last video ranting about it for like seventeen minutes.”

 

I simply look at them blankly, “I did not think she was still doing -”

 

Perry drops her rubber gloves on the table, “Oh you should watch them, Carmilla, they are absolutely delightful.”

 

LaF grins at her, “Yeah. If you see the comments of Easybake99 or FreudalQueerLord,” They point at Perry and then themselves.

 

I groan, “You are both excruciatingly embarrassing.”

 

“Well, your crush doesn't seem to think so. She actually made me wear a video camera for one day, to make a day in the life type of video. It was really cool. She even has a few people following her vlogs regularly, excluding us obviously. Anyway – what's the plan?”

 

You feel so incredibly lucky when you realize that change sometimes can be kind and generous. Tugging you along with a firm grip on a delicate wrist like it forgives the hate you bare for it simply because you so desperately need it. In my mind, vivid paints bring the details of this moment in my memory. The tacky decorations in their camper, their well-rested eyes, the bowl of fruits on the small counter and the way that I cannot add them to the list of things I have lost.

 

* * *

 

Perry is putting the finishing touches on the cake while Danny paces around nervously in the kitchen. “Okay. So we have the gifts and the cake,” She gestures to the small pile on the counter. I grin at the wrapping paper, covered in dinosaur print. She should have known better than to let LaF choose. She points at me, “And you will keep her busy for at least five minutes. Please apologize or do whatever it takes to save us all from the awkwardness.”

 

I lean back on the counter, grinning as I watch LaF imitating her behind her back. I give her a lazy formal salute, “Yes chief.”

 

Perry puts her hand on Red's shoulder and I am thoroughly surprised that she is able to reach it, “It's going to be great, Danny. Don't worry.” She carefully puts the cake back in its box.

 

She smiles back at her, her words causing a slight relaxation in her tense shoulders. I should have anticipated that these two would hit it off. Then again, Perry has this gift, this ability to universally connect with others. They both come from a similar background, both were both born from people who did not have the abilities required to raise them. According to LaF, they often get coffee together. To get her friendship, Perry only needed a homemade flower arrangement to thank her, and Laura, for making a deal with their landlord to that they could stay in the parking lot. Ultimately, she turned this giant into the type of girl who wears a best friends necklace. As much as I like to laugh at them, there is something exceptionally sweet about this whole situation. In some ways, it all reminds me of that calm period of time where Bonnie and Abadeer spent most of their time in Silas. That soothing feeling of belonging.

 

Red brings her hands together, “Okay. Just need to hide the gifts and act casual when she comes in. And you -”

 

“Leaving. Hiding in Laura's room to make world peace. Got it.” I look at LaF, a thumb in the direction of Xena and Perry, “You watch those two crazies so that they don't lose all pigmentation before Laura arrives. The one thing weirder than having mainly redheaded friends is having mainly albino friends.”

 

It feels awkward to be in her room, alone. I don't think I ever have been. Everything seems just too still. Sitting stiffly on her bed, I try to ignore how much the room smells like her. So much I feel it on my tongue and it makes my throat tighten. I have tried to keep myself busy, to ignore the coldness that settled between us. I have tried to forget the anger and how it has kept me awake since we came back from announcing to LaF and Perry that I would be staying with her. Had I not done what she wanted? What could have gone just so wrong? My eyes find the scattered tissues on her nightstand, the dirty uniforms threw around her laundry basket and the empty trays of cookies littered next to her bed. I know that I want to make things right again, whatever that may mean.

 

I hear her greet the herd of redheads in the living room, where they are probably pretending to watch a television show. My heart is hitting my sternum with such speed and strength I bring my hand against it, barely able to pretend that I have any sort of control over it. She doesn't notice me at first, as she makes her way into her room. All this time, I had focused on everything else, but now I cannot ignore the way she lets down her every defence only to reveal sadness. She drops her bag next to her desk. Her eyebrows shoot up as she notices me sitting.

 

I clear my throat, “Happy birthday, Laura.”

 

She gives me a weak laugh, tugging on her uniform top, “Thanks. I spent it partying with my patients.” She looks at the guitar laying on the bed next to me only to look back at me with a confused look.

 

“Well.” My hands are clammy as I pick up the small guitar. I strum it a few times, making sure it is in tune. “I wanted to get you something. I know we -” I look down at my arms, slowly becoming steadier as I hold the instrument against me. Focusing on her hands holding the edge of the desk tightly as she leans back against it, instead of her eyes, “One day I will, but for now, this is all I have to give to you.”

 

From the first chord, I feel the air change. The messy, colourful fog that sets in when two people seem to become the only ones existing. My voice doesn't cut through the silence, instead, it lies down with it, as peaceful and subtle as breathing. Not demanding to be heard but rather to be present.

 

“ _And I thought it was strange, you said everything changed, you felt as if you'd just woke up -_ ” A small, delicate smile tugs at the edges of my lips, “ _And you said, this is the first day of my life, I'm glad I didn't die before I met you -_ ”

 

It is only once the song is ended that I find the courage to look at her. With her teeth holding her lower lip tightly, and her eyebrows coming together just so softly, I cannot determine her reaction. I was foolish to think that I could fix a problem from which I cannot understand the root, with the simple strum of a song that had bound us together so long ago. I have dissected my memory, from every angle, trying to find that moment. Hoping I could find her face amongst a small crowd, in the smile of a stranger walking hurriedly past me. Foolish, just so foolish, I think as I get up holding my guitar by its neck. So idiotic to think that her lips against mine could mean anything, could be anything other than a strong reaction to an emotional situation.

 

It is her hand on my wrist that stops me from reaching the door, “Carm... _please_ -”

 

The soft, vulnerability in her voice makes me turn to her. There's a slight crease between her eyebrows and this look in her eyes. A faint sigh makes it past my slightly parted lips because I know that look. I have yearned and ached for that look, I have recalled it with both adoration and bitterness. Maybe we are both, equally, terrible at this.

 

I feel her fingers lingering across my palm as she lets go of her hold. She is looking at me expectantly and I just cannot understand what she wants me to say. “I'm sorry” eventually falls out of her mouth although I cannot exactly pin point what she is apologizing for. For a fraction of a second, I see her eyes drift to my lips and it seems that's the only thing it takes for me to bring her closer with a slight tug from where my arm slips around her waist. This time, the kiss isn't gentle or slow. It is hungry and bruising like it could make up for days of _I miss you and I don't understand even if I am so desperate to_.

 

Her lips don't leave mine and I feel them move against me like they could be my own, “I don't want you to think,” I bring my lips harder against hers, maybe because I do not want to think at all, “that I only want you to stay,” she brings her arm around my neck and I let my guitar fall to the floor to feel her hair between my fingers instead, “because of -”

 

I tug her lower lip with my teeth, both warning and teasing, suddenly understanding. “I know.”

 

Everything seems to make sense as my hands grip under her thighs lifting up until she is sitting on her desk. With her legs wrapped around my waist, so incredibly close, she is teaching me about another kind of need. Her chest is pressed against mine and I feel it rise and fall rapidly, like ocean waves. I suddenly don't mind drowning as I feel her hands gripping my back, sending a sea of shivers down my spine. An almost giddy laugh falls from my lips as she says, “Please stop being distant,” each word punctuated with a kiss.

 

My lips travel to her jaw so that she can't feel the smile building, “Then stop giving me space, creampuff.”

 

She tilts her head to the side offering me the soft skin of her neck as I kiss and nip my way down the path that I memorized so long ago. As hard-headed as she is beautiful, “Stop being all broody.”

 

I am almost too distracted by the goosebumps rising against my mouth. “Stop ignoring me.”

 

“Stop pretending you don't care.”

 

Ironically, I suddenly don't care that I can't wipe the smile off my lips, clashing drastically with the attempted seriousness of my tone of voice. It only seems to grow between kisses and when I awkwardly feel her teeth knocking mine, I realize maybe it is her fault. I only hum in response as I tug on her lower lip gently.

 

I almost whine when she backs away slightly only to say, “Stop being so cute.”

 

And our kisses become a mess because I am laughing at how ridiculous she is, “Shut up.”

 

“No, _you_ shut up -”

 

I trace her lower lip with my tongue, trying to ignore the way my knees weaken as I feel hers meet mine. Her thumbs are tracing amorphous shapes on my jawbone as I mutter, “You are such a child.”

 

She brings a hand to brush my hair back, a satisfied smirk on her face as she looks at me, her warm breath on my lips. “Like you're any better-”

 

Before I close the distance between us, someone knocks on the door.

 

Xena's voice feels more like an alarm clock, bringing me back to a world in which time doesn't stand still. I find myself unable to look away from the golden haired girl as she searches my face for something she doesn't seem to find. Settling for giving me a content smile instead.

 

“Are you guys still alive in there? We are – well the food is ready.”

 

Lucky, so incredibly lucky I feel as I drag my thumb over her lower lip, feeling the muscles move as she answers, “We'll be there in a sec.” Her voice is unsteady and sounds more like a question than an answer.

 

I assume her legs feel as weak as mine, as she grips my shoulder for support when she stands again. She tries to smooth her the wrinkles in her scrubs, “I should probably get out of those.”

 

It is pride that builds up in me, as I take in her flushed cheeks, the wetness on her lips. I nod, “I'll let you change.”

 

I awkwardly stand, waiting for her response as she only smiles, dorky and digging into her cheeks. “Thank you.” She simply gives me a soft, chaste kiss, and I find myself leaning forward when she backs away. “I think that was one of the best birthday gifts ever.”

 

I look away as I rub the back of my neck, still feeling her fingers grasping at the skin. Trying to slow the fast pace of my heart with deliberately slow breathing.

 

“That includes a Furby I got when I was nine named Mr. Furbird.”

 

I snort, crossing my hands over my chest, “Good to know I beat the creepiest toy of the early 2000s.”

 

She shrugs, “Not as cute as Mr.Furbird, though.”

 

“Have fun making out with him then.” I flip her off, her laugh echoing as I leave the room. With the door closed behind me, I take a moment to try to wipe the stupid smile on my face. I slowly make my way to the kitchen and any attempt I made at keeping a neutral face is out the window when I take in the current setup. The kitchen is a mess of balloons and birthday decorations. The three of them are waiting birthday hats and look utterly absurd.

 

“Isn't this a little too much?”

 

Xena looks up at the ceiling. I know from Perry's guilty face that it is clearly her idea. I add the giant to the list of people who cannot say no to her. “Whatever – did you guys make up?”

 

I try to swallow back a laugh at the irony, “Yeah. Definitely made up.”

 

LaF raises an eyebrow, entirely suspicious while Danny just sighs out of relief. “Great, thanks, Morticia.”

 

I shrug in response, taking a seat at the table. Once Laura comes into the room, I suddenly have the urge to thank Perry. The small nurse enthusiastically looks from the wacky decorations to the silly adults in front of her. I see her hug them so tightly, you'd think they were more her friends than they ever were mine. Or at least, like it had been this way since the start. With one word they are arranging us to take a group picture. A surprised squeak comes out of me as the small, ridiculous nurse falls into my lap as they regroup around my chair. I swear at LaF when they attempt to put a birthday hat on my head but I am distracted by the way the girl on my lap puts her hand around my shoulders.

 

“You should hold the phone, Lawrence, your arm is practically a selfie stick.”

 

She scoffs but takes the phone regardless, “Fuck you.”

 

I can only chuckle, knowing how desperately I will try to get a copy of this. Regardless of the possible hit at my pride.

 

* * *

 

Her head is propped on her arm, looking at me seriously. As serious as one can be with a blood content consisting primarily of cake and wine. “So... is this weird or?”

 

I raise my eyebrow in response, “Do you want it to be, birthday girl?”

 

She just shakes her head, a small smile on her lips. “It should feel weird right?”

 

I snort, “I think after everything, this might be one of the least weird things that have happened to us.”

 

She nods, “Right. And so you're okay -”

 

I groan, “Stop with the whole self-induced guilt trip. I am a consenting adult who knows you're, mostly, not keeping me here for my hot body.”

 

She falls on her back, “And if whatever this is, suddenly doesn't work – you will still be free to stay here.”

 

My head is slightly spinning as I turn towards the nurse. I rest my head against her chest, smiling as I hear her heart beat and echo in my ears.

 

“And also, I would like to say -”

 

“Shh.” My thumb rubs the soft patch of skin exposed on her stomach.

 

She gives me a slight push but I do not budge.“Carm! You can't just -”

 

I smile against the fabric of her shirt and shush her again.

 

She snorts, “I don't even know why I even like you. You're like the rudest.”

 

I lazily get up from my position, mirroring hers from a few minutes ago. I can't help the smug look on my face, “So you like me.”

 

She looks up at the ceiling exasperatedly, “No. I obviously let anyone,” she gestures to her room in one wide arc, “in my boudoir.”

 

“Knew it.”

 

Her eyes don't leave mine, both challenging and humouring me. “Like, I let anyone. Coworkers, taxi drivers,” She brings a finger to her lips, “the people at the coffee shop who give me extra whipped cream on my hot cocoa.”

 

I feign disinterest, “Great. Just don't mind me when I kick the Amazon out of the bed the night she tries to snuggle her great length between us.”

 

She tugs me closer to her by a tug on the collar of my shirt, “You're so annoying.”

 

I give in, carefully placing myself above her, pressing my lips against hers. Melting into the way they move against mine, the small sound of content in her throat. “You're lucky you're cute.” Her hair is spread out on her pillow, her hands running up and down my back and I feel so undeniably hers. It doesn't feel scary, though, when a girl looks at you like all she wants is to keep you. “I can't believe you gave me the cold shoulder because you felt guilty. If you had been an adult about this, you probably wouldn't have spent a week making exaggerated sighs at night because you couldn't sleep since you didn't have a cuddle buddy. The walls aren't made to soundproof such an annoying squeaky voice.”

 

She just gives me a sheepish look, as she twirls my hair around her finger, “You even stole Mircalla.”

 

“I didn't steal Mircalla.”

 

She looks at me disbelievingly.

 

I look away, “I may or may not have encouraged her to stay in my bedroom. That has yet to be proven.”

 

She brings my face towards her, her palm on my cheek, “Thank you. It was honestly one of the best birthdays I've had -”

 

I shrug, “It was mostly Danny and -”

 

She shakes her head, laughing, “I know you helped Perry with the cake. I don't know if using one of my uniforms as a model for the floral pattern is a compliment or not.”

 

“Whatever. You like that top. It's your good luck top.”

 

She frowns, “Obviously that's the type of thing you remember, Doctor Karnstein. And I know you helped LaF when they totally rebuilt my computer.”

 

I trace a finger across her cheek, “It was their idea. I guess they want to make sure you continue with your vlogs.”

 

She laughs, “When, in the small period of time that we didn't talk, did you lose your impressive ability to accept compliments?”

 

I press my body against hers, settling my face in the crook of her neck. I feel her bring the blanket higher to cover my shoulders. With a small kiss against her neck and the feeling that maybe, a piece of happiness is made for everybody, “Shh.”

 

She responds with lips pressed against the top of my head. Her voice is chirpy and matter a fact, “I like you even if you are annoying and rude.”

 

Sarcastic and lazily drawn out, “You make me feel so good about myself.” But the truth is that, she really does.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO I am sorry for the rude delay, but it seems life hasn't been too kind to me. But that's all good since you guys really have been, with all the lovely comments and the kudos. Also, I apologise for bringing you to fluff hell. I promise to go back to the extra slow burn and angst next chapter (I Am Joking). Hope you enjoyed, let me know what you think, if you fancy Laura Hollis, how much of a sap Carmilla truly is on a scale from 0 to 10 or if I should steal a boat and migrate to an unpopulated island with my laptop and a bag of cheetos.


	18. Chapter 18

 

The sun rises, as it always has. A slow build of rays and colours carefully laying against each other. The lights play with the surfaces in Laura's room like all matter ultimately belongs to it, willingly so. Specks of dust defy the gravitational pull as they float in suspense. The run rises, as it always has, and yet it all feels just so much sweeter. I know why it does because I'm wearing Laura's shirt and I know she will come back from work soon. As she has for the past week. The day will start with her cursing night shifts, maybe ranting about how horrible it is to spend a night mostly in silence. It will start with her falling asleep in the bed I have kept warm. It will start with us falling asleep only to start the day once more.

 

I hear her come in, carefully shutting the door but stubbing her foot on the sofa in the living room. I grin at her variations of swear words because, of course, she wouldn't dare swear in the presence of no one. The shower turns on and I know I will soon hear her sing whatever song she had stuck in her head for the past eight hours. It with total certainty that I can predict it will be something completely out of her range. Mircalla's head perks up at the horrible mixture of sounds. There are still some sounds she is getting used to, the vacuum being the worse of them. Usually, Laura spends the rest of the day apologizing to her in that stupid voice she only uses with her. I, on the other hand, spend the rest of the day cursing the small nurse for terrifying an innocent animal. The entertainment I get from her irrational guilt is very satisfying. The book is still in my hands as I hear the blow dryer, but I am not taking in the words anymore. It is mostly to pretend I haven't been waiting for her. She eventually comes in, softly as morning, hair wild as if it still has the wind stuck between the strands. A look of almost exaggerated disgust crosses her features as she throws her dirty uniform into the laundry hamper, her other hand clutching at the towel wrapped snugly around her body. My eyes jolt back to the book in my hands as she turns towards me.

 

Regardless of how hard I try to simply stare at the page I still see the smile she's giving me. Open and honest, as only the early hours of the day or dark of night can bring. She laughs, “Look at you being all domestic and waiting for me to come back from work, like the fifth day in a row. It's growing on you. I'm thinking about getting you a cute little housewife apron.”

 

I huff, keeping my eyes on the middle of the page that I am definitely not reading. My jaw clenches as I feel a fluttering kind of heat in my abdomen. “Look at you, going all pornographic cliché on me, nurse.” With exaggerated disinterest, I turn a page of the book, “I'm going to get you a latex uniform from that crusty sex shop you secretly like so much.”

 

She rolls her eyes, awkwardly putting an oversized shirt over her towel. I stifle my laugh as she almost falls down. “Damn you, Carmilla.”

 

She all but throws herself on the bed but lies still when she finally puts the covers over herself. Putting my book on the night table, “Stop being awkward, Laura,” I give her a smug look, “It's not like we haven't been in this position for the past days.”

 

Sighing, “Yeah, I know. Danny's been giving me the look. I think she knows something is going on.”

 

I can't help but frown, “You make it sound like it is a bad thing.”

 

My frown only deepens as she shakes her head, a smile on her lips. She grips the sleeve of my shirt and I reluctantly make my way closer to her. Or at least, I pretend to but it's hard when she tugs at shirt again with that look she gets when she wants to kiss me. Her voice is a slight octave lower from sleep and perhaps other things that are making my blood burn. “Obviously,” her lips are brushing softly against mine as the words come out of her mouth, “it's horrible to have someone who waits for you to come back from work. No one can ever know.”

 

The hand that is not holding me up makes it way to the back of her neck, my thumb rubbing softly the soft skin. Still warm and flushed pink from the heat of the shower. “It's atrocious.”

 

“Disgusting.” My eyes are closed but I can feel her smile before she presses her lips against mine. It almost tastes too sweet, like a moment you know you'll be nostalgic for and ache as you remember. With each movement, I feel it build up and swell until the skin between my ribs is stretched thin, barely containing. How could it even be contained? When her hands are holding my face against hers, so delicately that for a moment I forget that I am more than just this feeling. Regardless, the mind never forgets completely. When she nudges her nose into a mess of hair and neck, pressing soft, tired kisses against the skin, I remember I am a person. I see the parts of me scattered under her lips. You can dress it up, the fear. You can give it a bed, a warm bath, cup of coffee on a cold morning. But it's eyes are on you, relentless. Making the hairs in the back of your neck rise up, making your throat burn as the thoughts rise up. Some mornings, it ties you to the bed, making it so impossibly hard to get up and you cannot even find exactly why it is so. Some nights, it doesn't allow you to sink into the arms of a girl who doesn't ask you anything but to be present. And again, I am so scared, so incredibly terrified, because she is good in a thousand ways and I do not want redemption she offers.

 

I feel her breathing slow down, approaching sleep. The contents of my thoughts force me to roll off of her, ignoring her hands attempting to pull me back in place. Ignoring the confused, sleep-ridden look she gives me, I put my hands behind my head. Focusing on the small stain on her ceiling. Wishing she would fall asleep. So that she could come back to a moment in which I can hold her and pretend that it's something that comes easy.

 

Her words fall out, lazy and slurred from fatigue, “Why did you go?”

 

For the fraction of a second, my brows come together, betraying me. The words serve for cheap, bad acting, “You are too warm.”

 

Pain fills her features for a second, before being replaced by skepticism. “You're always freezing. Not even a day ago you gave me a speech on how I was selfish for trying to keep my own body heat.” She shifts closer to me, now lying on her side. Her hand searches for mine under the blanket. “What's up?”

 

I want to tell her that it is simply a moment. That this will pass or fade until I can ignore it. Instead, it comes out as she laces her fingers with mine, “I think you like a version of me, an idea, something I can't possibly live up to.” And I hate the part of me that needs the words to swim between us.

 

She frowns as her eyes bore into mine, shifting and searching, “Did I do something wrong? I mean I didn't mean to pressure you into trying to give out more – I mean you told me you wanted a job and that -”

 

I can't gather the courage to look at her. “Would you still like me if I had the same story as thousands of others? If I had parents who called me once a week and a boring job? If us coming together had been simple? That I had just known you through common friends and gathered the courage to ask you out? Would you still like me if I was a simple, provincial girl that never needed your help?”

 

A soft sigh falls from between her lips, looking upwards as she evidently tries to formulate an answer. “You would never be just that. Because you're you.”

 

She is everything but a disappointment. Soothing and honest, I feel the pull in the pit of my stomach that burns to close all distance between us. Sometimes, I want. I want so much but I have to fight my own body into movement. Feeling it rebel against the urges like it wants to remind me that nothing is mine. Not a place, not a person nor even my own actions.

 

But Laura, she wins some battles for me. She slowly moves to snuggle against my chest. The tips of her fingers draw on the skin left exposed by the slight rise of my shirt. It's almost a whisper, “I'm scared that I'm temporary. You know, like a bandage you will throw away once the wound has healed. That you only like me because I'm useful at the moment.”

 

I almost have to swallow it down. I want to tell her, _just because I drown in you, doesn't mean I want to. There is nothing voluntary about this or this process that has made us become what we are. I couldn't make you temporary even if I wanted to._ I mirror her words, knowing she will understand them best, “You're you, Laura Hollis. You could never be just that.”

 

I can hear the smile in her voice, “Carm-”

 

“Go to sleep, cupcake. We can get all sappy and emotional once you've had a couple hours of sleep.”

 

She snorts and tries to bury her face deeper into the oversized shirt, “You smell nice.”

 

“This is your shirt. I smell like you, you narcissistic mess.”

 

She presses a small kiss against the exposed collarbone, “Nope. All you.”

 

* * *

 

The wind has lost it's bite, the cool air is fresh and simple. The task has grown dull, as all nervousness that was previously attached to trying to convince people to hire someone who fell off the face of the earth for a few years seems to have disappeared. Unsuccessful, but yet, still not desperate. This is something Perry and Laf couldn't help me with, to their great frustration. I appreciate the sentiment either way. Currently donning Laura's more formal coat, I appreciate her help as well. I walk streets that have felt the soles of my shoes so many times they almost seem that in that way, they have become mine. The cracks in the pavements, the words painted on the brick walls, the windows from shops I have never set a foot in, they are familiar like the veins that run up my arms. Everything remains the same, the people, the places, the air. The most simple of paradox – that all changes but ultimately remains the same. Those same streets feel like they belong to another universe as the steps I take have a purpose. The dream has lost its inaccessible, hazy quality. I think of a future in which I never fell off the grid. I think of odds that I may be wired to defy. Of purpose in being, in the comfort of belonging. Of all of the silver and the gold, things you find in people. And I ask myself if I am demanding too much of a world that has only recently gifted me with a life in which I do not have to fight to take a breath. Living like it's expected to want more.

 

After a tour of the shops, cafés and restaurants, only a few envelopes, containing pitiful resumés of the years of my life, sit in my bag. I walk the streets as the sun slowly begins its fall. It is something I have only recently begun to do, to walk because I want to. In the silence, there is suddenly time to think. I have claimed back solitude and it no longer seems like a failure at survival. I wish I could look back at it all, understanding it in an instant. A question asked and an answer given. A timeline, a documented action and effect. But the answer finds you, as easily as the sun finds skin - there is nothing to understand. It has never been yours to understand, only to live. It was never something that you were expected to grasp. Only meant to eventually allow yourself a few minutes to soothe the ache in your bones. For a small moment, I do just that. There can be great peace surrendering, even if to a small part of yourself.

 

The bright neon lights, of the pizza place I have been to far too many times, throws me out of my thoughts. With a shrug and a slight smile, I make my way inside, holding one of the last of my resumés. The girl at the counter is the rude one, her black curls as wild and unpredictable as her attitude. A face I have seen quite a few times before.

 

With a hand on her hip and her chin tilted upwards like she owns this place and half this town, “So, what will it be, darling?”

 

Unphased by the usual tone of voice, “My name is Carmilla Karnstein. I've come to-”

 

An eyebrow raised as she looks me up and down, “You're Carmilla? Just give me a second I'll go get my father.”

 

I frown, “There is absolutely no need -”

 

Her index in my direction and a stern look is what I get as a response. “If you're as clever as he has made you to be, you will stay there.”

 

There is a surprised but genuine smile on his face when he sees me. I am as clueless as I was a few moments ago. The girl makes her way back to the counter, picking at her nails in a disinterested manner. Her father is the total opposite, a smiles and the happy go lucky attitude.

 

He laughs, “I can't believe it's you.”

 

I look around the almost empty place. I shrug, “Most days, me neither.”

 

His laugh only grows, “Come with me, we'll get a table.”

 

I glance back at the girl as if she might be able to explain whatever this is.

 

“I – I'm not here to use your bathroom, sir. I don't quite understand -”

 

He takes off his apron, messy with sauce and flour, “Please, after all, this time, call me Delmar. And this,” He points to the girl who is not even pretending to not be listening, “This is my daughter, Mattie. She's in law school – going to be some hot shot lawyer.”

 

The girl groans, “Would you tell everybody if I was studying poll dancing instead? Heaven knows I'm considering it.”

 

He smiles at her before turning back to me, “I swear, that girl is all her mother and absolutely no me. That attitude and you should see her in a kitchen – a disaster on two legs that one is.”

 

I just stare at him, not quite understand where I fit in this situation.

 

“I can't believe it took this much time to find you. I swear I had all my employees on the lookout for a small, broody white girl with black curly hair. And let me tell you, in this part of town, I had lots of false alarms.” His booming laugh fills the place once again as he crosses his arms over his chest. I can't help but notice that he slimmed down since I last saw him.

 

My hand rubs the back of my neck as I consider his words, “Why were you looking for me? The bathrooms lost their popularity?”

 

“Do you want anything to drink or eat?” Before I can answer he turns to his daughter, “Get Carmilla a Pepsi and bring me some water, will you?” The girl rolls her eyes but makes her way to the refrigerator regardless.

 

Once the can is in my hands, he focuses on me once again, more serious this time. “I was worried, you know, about you Carmilla. I mean, you came here for months, a few times a week and then bam – nothing. I kept watching the news, but that is as useless as it ever was. I was scared something bad had happened to you. I actually started to do a free pizza night once per month, for you know, folks in your situation. Was hoping to see you pop up, but it turned out pretty good either way. We even got an article in the newspaper – but that's all besides the point.”

 

I frown, trying to understand what it is he wants from me. “Well, I apologize for the trouble. I am alive and well.” I take a small tentative sip from the cold drink, “You let me come here regularly for ages. Whatever you owe me, it's paid.”

 

“You know, it's funny because as soon as I felt it was paid, you found a way to remind me I would never really be. It's not a bad thing, far from it.” His fingers drum a slow beat on the table. “You remember that time – it was a couple of months after you started to come here – and you saw me with a box of donuts and those lattes from that café down the street. I was eating that for breakfast when you came in and you just looked at me. You always look serious but at that moment I mean, you were all shades of scary. And you just looked at the food and the pack of smokes on the counter and,” He laughs, “you asked me if I wanted an another stroke.”

 

I shrug, “Subtlety is not my forté.”

 

He shakes his head, “Yeah, that's true. But you just make me think twice about it. Because you had more to lose at that moment than I thought I did. The fact that you'd risk the whole set up, just to tell me what I was doing wasn't right, made me realize how serious it was.” He takes a pack of gum out of the pocket on his button up, “I even stopped smoking. Probably going to chew my own jaw off but it is what it is.”

 

It feels odd, to think about that period of time. Like having an old photo album on your lap. Beautiful, happy pictures, that you cannot look at without seeing all the bad moments that surrounded them. I remember how much it meant to have a place to wash. The importance of the routine. And now, it's become so easy to take a shower or to warm up a meal that the time saved, some days, feel alien. I think about the golden-haired dork and the small domestic fur ball waiting for me, probably curled on the couch with cookie crumbs everywhere. “That's good. I – I have a place now.”

 

He puts his hand on mine briefly, “I'm happy for you, Carmilla. God knows you deserve that.”

 

I look at the now dark streets, “I do not know if we ever truly deserve anything – good or bad.”

 

He sighs, frowning slightly, “Maybe all that questioning is for bigger people than old me. But what I know is that sometimes we get dealt a bad set of cards. It takes a good person to make something out of it. You shouldn't have been the one to help me when I was sick, but you were. You shouldn't have been the one able to keep me in line, to manage my hypertension and diabetes, but still you were. In my books, all the philosophy crap aside, you deserve more of the good than the bad.”

 

I think about Laf and Perry, and how they've never let me push them away even it would have been the right thing to do for survival at so many different moments. I think about the layer of fat that has grown over my body and how easier it is to concentrate now, how fatigue is not my baseline. How heat finds my body and stays. I think about how a small piece of this land has become mine. How my books have a shelf and my clothes are neatly folded and hung in a closet. I think about Laura and how she tangles her hands in my hair when we kiss like I am both incredibly fragile or maybe entirely capable of leaving. I think about goodness and how some nights, I find it asleep on my chest.

 

And this man will never know what he truly gave me. In a way, I would not wish upon anyone this kind of understanding. Knowing it would only have to come from personal experience. It's the least I can give him, “Thank you.” I get up, searching my bag for the papers stashed there, “Well, I won't take any more of your time. I was simply here to apply for whatever job you may have to offer.”

 

His eyebrows almost reach his hairline as he takes it. He reads through the paper, maybe humoring me with the time it takes him to do so. “Med school? Guess that explains a lot of stuff. In Ontario? You're a hell of a ride away from home, Carmilla.”

 

I almost laugh at that one as I shake my head, “Not really. Only a twenty-minute walk. Fifteen if it's really cold.” I'd kiss Xena's freakishly long feet before ever calling what that was back there a home.

 

He smiles, but it doesn't seem to come that easy. “Right, well,” He gets up, leaving the paper on the table, “Are you good with your hands or are you more of a people person?”

 

Now it's my turn to look surprised as I take in what he's insinuating. “I'd take anything.”

 

Nodding, “That's good. We need another person in the kitchen. I have a feeling you're going to be a quick learner.” He extends his hand and it seems like the callouses in his hands almost mirror mine, “Come with me, we'll fill up some paperwork. Welcome to the family, Carmilla.”

 

* * *

 

My work schedule is folded in Laura's coat pocket. I can't help but rub my thumb against the paper, to remind myself that it is real. That if I don't find a way to mess this up, this is something that could last. Something that would help me save enough money to go back to school, to pay rent and whatever other expenses Laura seems to hide from me ( _“You'll pay me back when you make a month worth of my salary in a day”_ ). The thing is that she is the one I want to tell. She seems to be the one that will make it real. I do not know what it means or what it makes of the fragile thing between us. I do know that it makes me think of permanence or at least wish for more time.

 

It is Xena that I see once I make my way into the apartment. She is in the kitchen, probably making some half edible vegan food for her lunch tomorrow.

 

“Hey Dexter, scared any innocent shopkeepers today?”

 

I look at the empty couch, surprised to see it empty, “Where are my gir-?”

 

She drops the bowl and the spoon, “What?”

 

Grinning as I shrug the coat off nonchalantly, putting the piece of paper in my back pocket, “I asked where two small losers were?”

 

She shrugs, “Laura showered, I think she's getting ready for tonight.”

 

I hear the small nurse's graceless steps on the floor before I see her, “Carmilla! You said you would be back early – we need to leave in like fifteen minutes. We can't go to a bar with you all business chic.”

 

“Hello to you too, sweetheart. With such a warm welcome, I do not understand why I didn't come back home earlier.” I see Red go back to the kitchen, pretending to gag.

 

She glances at the kitchen, with a lack of all suitability, before she steps closer to me. “You better have a good excuse.” Her fingers trail the collar of the clean, white blouse I'm wearing. She is almost whispering when she finally adds, “You know, one day someone will hire you just because of how cute you look.”

 

My face twists up in disgust, “Shut up.”

 

Her smile grows, “The cutest.”

 

I look up at the ceiling, “I am anything but cute.”

 

She hums as she takes a slight step forward, “Like so cute.”

 

Reaching in my back pocket for the folded piece of paper, “You are the most annoying girl I have ever met.” I hold it between us and she takes it with a confused look.

 

She unfolds it slowly, “Are we writing each other love letters now? Because that's something I'm sure you're - ” She blinks a few times, her mouth slightly opened. “Is this what I think it is?”

 

“Yes, I -”

 

She lets out a small squeal, “Oh my gosh.”

 

Any response I might have formulated was cut off my her hands on my cheeks pulling me towards her. Partly soft lips and smiles, I tug her closer with my hand on the small of her back.

 

“What's up? Did you -”

 

The small nurse breaks away almost instantly. I would laugh at how dumb Xena looks right now if it wasn't for the guilty look on Laura's face. With the whole deer caught in the headlights thing, she has going on I figure, “I can explain -”

 

With eyebrows raised and grimace, “I'm sure you can, Stockholm syndrome.”

 

I snort, “How does that even make sense – she didn't-”

 

Laura cuts me off with a hand on my chest, “Go get ready. I'll do the talking.” She takes a look at her phone, “You have nine minutes.”

 

I finally laugh when I walk away hearing the tall mess say quite loudly, “Mortica, of all people”. It's probably better if the small dork handles this one.

 

On my bed is the dress Laura picked up for me a few days ago. Barely twenty-four hours after I agreed to come to Laura and dandy long legs' annual nurse meet up. Apparently a bunch of girls they graduated with and a few more. I mostly agreed because the tiny nurse promised gross nursing stories. I may also have gotten influenced by other manipulation techniques ( _“Everyone's bringing someone and I don't want them to think I only have Danny in my life” “I'm going to be wearing that dress you like” “If you don't go I'll tell everyone you like bubble baths and being the little spoon”_ ). I am dressed and as ready as I am going to be when she finally comes in.

 

She turns, showing me her back, “Zip me up?”

 

“Depends. Did you fix things with the giant?”

 

She laughs, “There was nothing to fix. She was just surprised that's all. A little hurt that I didn't tell her.”

 

My fingers ghost over her spine before pulling up the zipper. “Sounded kind of angry.”

 

She turns to face me, “So do you when you try to compliment me.”

 

I shrug, “That's probably true.”

 

After checking in to see if Perry and Laf were home, we make our way into Xena's car. It seems Laura was right. There seems to be no difference or awkwardness. I talk about tall one's driving skills or lack of. She talks to me about my civility or lack of. Maybe the only moment of awkwardness when we get out of the car, the tiny nurse keeps bumping her hand against mine as if too scared to hold it.

 

I take her hand, only seeing her small smile from the corner of my eye. “So, can we be gay tonight or do I have to pretend to have a boyfriend named Brad?”

 

Xena laughs, “Gross. Probably an Axe-wearing weightlifter who only does arm days.”

 

“I am just so in love.”

 

Laura rolls her eyes, “I'm so jealous.” I smirk as I feel her hold on my hand tightening slightly. “And no, it's cool. Most of them know, so no beards for tonight.”

 

“Thank god.”

 

I quickly leave the small nurse's side to get drinks once I see the sheer size of the group waiting for them. As I am waiting, I pretend I do not know her. She moves awkwardly around the table and the group of people standing. Greeting everyone, a laugh or a smile easily given. I pretend that my chest doesn't clench when I see her hug enthusiastically some taller girl.

 

The bartender looks at me expectantly and a little annoyed.

 

“I'll take a beer and whatever cocktail sugary enough for an adult child.”

 

The drink is of such a bright color, it almost seems to glow in the dark place as I make my way to Laura. She is still talking to that tall blond girl. From the shirt that's tucked in her skirt, I can only assume her name is Betty.

 

“Here, creampuff. The bartender promised it would give you cavities.”

 

Her fingers almost deliberately brush mine when she takes the drink, “Thanks, Carm.”

 

Her friend laughs, “If you think her diet is bad now, you should have seen her back when she was in nursing school. She was basically running on chocolate bars and lattes and pre-diabetes.”

 

“Good to know she hasn't changed much.”

 

She extends her hand, “I'm Betty.”

 

I see the small nurse brings her lips away from the drink in a haste, “Oh gosh, I'm so rude. Betty, this is -”

 

The taller girl quickly looks at the lack of distance between us. “Girlfriend right? Finally – I mean you haven't been with anyone since-”

 

She shakes her head, “No, she's not – I don't – wait.” She turns to face me in one swift motion, “Do you want to date other girls?”

 

My lips curl up in an exaggerated disgust, “Gross.”

 

She smiles, all teeth and dimples in the corners of her cheeks. “Right, same.” She turns back to her friend, looking at the scene with apparent confusion. “Well, that's my girlfriend, Carmilla.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL - hello there. It's been such a long while that I almost feel embarrassed. My excuses: end of uni hell, almost quarter life crisis and also death. It was kind of hard getting back into it, writing that is. Especially more so now that I can feel that the end is near. This little story has kept me standing for so long now, I'm not quite sure what I'll do without it (probably write another one tbh). As always, thank you so much for reading, for sending me all those nice comments and for making me not the only one who cares to see this story go on. I hope you enjoyed and feel free to send me anon hate for taking this long to update @ reallylikesogay dot tumblr dot com


	19. Chapter 19

 

_5 Months of Laura_

 

* * *

 

_March 20_

We do not celebrate our one month anniversary, celebrating the official arrival of spring instead. I have to chase the small ridiculous dork with sunscreen across the apartment. It's obviously harder to convince someone who has never had second-degree sunburns to protect themselves. _LaF walks into the basement of Silas, angry red welts on their face. They explain to us that they lost their hat while sleeping in the metro. Perry’s eyes fill with tears that do not fall and doesn’t calm down until we buy a salve for burns. We use up all the spare change that we have and the next few days are a little harder._ I catch Laura in the kitchen and we fall down, messy and ridiculous.

I straddle her waist, holding her in place, “Let's have a lovely talk about carcinomas and melanomas, cupcake.”

Her laugh barely dies down, “Carm, it's still practically winter. It's barely sunny out and I won't even get a tan with that stuff – stop girlfriending me, I'm going to be just fine-”

She squeals as I drop a generous amount right on the tip of her nose. “Maybe I will stop _girlfriending_ you,” I struggle to hold her hands above her head, bringing the other to smudge exaggerated amounts on her cheeks, “I'll stop carrying your tired ass to bed when you watch your stupid shows up too late and whine about how you can't move or you'll die.” I rub the lotion on her arm, “I'll just ignore you when you send LaF 50 texts, asking where I am or if I'm alive when we've only been gone thirty minutes.”

“Hey! That's not true -”

I feign a pondering expression, bringing my hand to my chin, “Maybe I won't awkwardly sit next to you in your vlogs – like a lost puppy – just to prove to your viewers that I am not just a fragment of your gay imagination.” I grin smugly at the mess and at my success, “Maybe I'll refuse when you ask for a stupid kiss every fifteen minutes, dramatically fearing our relationship will wither and rot if we don't.”

I drop the bottle when she pouts, slowly getting off of her. I hear her mumble a small “They are not stupid”.

Turning around to respond, I barely have time to open my mouth before a handful of sunscreen is smudged dramatically on my cheek. I chase her till we reach the balcony. We spend the rest of our day off in the sun, drinking iced tea and talking about things that won’t matter in the morning.

 

* * *

 

_April 20_

 

LaF is sitting on the floor, leaning back against the couch as Perry runs her hand through their hair absentmindedly. They sigh, turning back to look at me and Xena, who is sitting awkwardly between Perry and me, “So, we need to find something that won't make Perry have nightmares, or make you both argue till dawn.” Laura makes her way back from the kitchen, holding bowls of popcorn with a smile. They raise their eyebrows, turning back to the screen, a thumb in her direction, “Or make that one cry.”

She glares at LaF, giving a bowl to Danny and then Perry. She grabs a handful, throwing it at them, “You are one comment away from getting banned from movie night, LaFontaine.”

They shrug, taking a stray popcorn on their shoulder and popping it in their mouth. “If comments could get anyone banned from movie night, the only one left would be Perry.”

I snort, “Asshole.”

Perry smiles before giving them a quick kiss on top of their head. “You are just the sweetest, dear.”

Laura is pouting, seemingly deep in thought as she suddenly falls down on my lap.

Danny looks at her, exasperated, “I don't think this couch is meant to hold that many people. I'm almost breaking my arms trying to avoid rubbing up with your goth girlfriend.”

I bring my arm around Laura's waist, bringing her slightly closer as I turn to face Xena, “That was an incredibly original insult. Especially coming from someone, who truly, did not have a scene phase at fourteen. For which, said goth girlfriend, definitely, does not have proof in the form of digital images.”

LaF is cringing, face halfway between pity and disgust. They let out a low whistle, “How did that turn out for you? That whole look wasn't really the best for our type.”

We all turn to them, confused as to what they are referring to.

They point to their hair, evidently unimpressed. “Let’s all try to use those neurons in your big heads.”

The taller girl simply chuckles, taking a sip of her beer before putting it on the coffee table. “It was a mess. It's a wonder I even managed to get laid.”

“Must have been your charming personality.”

I share a look with LaF, a smile tugging at their lips, “Or your relatively short height.”

Laura lifts her head from my shoulder, looking at her friend, “Or maybe it's the way you _never_ gagged when someone ate meat.”

Perry gives us all a stern look. LaF has the decency to pretend to be embarrassed and I can feel Laura squirm.

Danny grabs the remote from LaF's hands. “You are all dicks as far as I'm concerned.” She turns to Perry, “Once again, you have proven to be the only one who's not an ass. We're choosing the movie.” Regardless of her words, she bares an amused expression.

LaF groans, “We're sorry, you have our most sincere apologies.” They bring their hands together, pleading. “Please don't make us watch some four hours long documentary about things even you don't care about.”

The television illuminates Laura's face, bathing it in a soft glow. It brings a sense of deja-vu. This is what time can give you. It’s a moment that that stands still, the strength in its beauty just so unexpected. It is highlighted, bathed in the warm glow simply because you can compare it. This time, her thumb rubbing softly the back of your hand and you don't have to pretend that it's hard not to look at her.

“Watch the movie, Carm.” She mumbles against my ear.

I take a quick look at the others, their eyes focused on the screen, before whispering back, “You look lovely.”

She smiles but shakes her head, “I'm in my ugly pajamas.”

“Really lovely.”

She gives me a chaste kiss on my cheek, “You're annoying.”

“No, that would be you.”

She shifts slightly, bringing her arm tighter around my shoulders, “Maybe. But it's apparently very contagious.”

My eyes are on the screen but not focusing at all, “It's been two months.”

I can feel her smile, “Yeah. It's getting pretty serious. One more or?”

A sigh and a shrug “Might as well.”

 

* * *

 

_May 19_

 

You crave silence the most when everything is asleep. For once, the hum of the city seems far away. The streets seem bare, empty of the loud voices of passersby and cars making their way through. The light from the alarm clock on my bedside combines with the dull street lights, giving the room a warm red glow. It doesn’t soothe me as it usually does, as it announces that I have lain in my bed for the past three hours, unable to find sleep. Laura was supposed to finish work an hour ago. I know, objectively, that it occasionally happens that she finishes later. How on shifts in which so much happens, she makes sure she does all of it right. It leaves the numerous, tedious documentation to finish amongst the night nurses. I know this. But I see her in a ditch, in a dark alley, I see her hurt and bloodied. It makes no sense as I know she has borrowed Danny’s car. I crave the silence while my mind spins until all there seems to be are those vivid, morbid, images.

Some are created out of fears that I cannot shed, but most are real. It happens less often now that my life is calm. It is infinitely more predictable, neatly contained in a routine. But it still happens and most often it weakens me to a point where I cannot bring back those moments with speech. It is a mess, a timeline of my failures. Often when morning comes, and I wake with skin that does not crawl, I am surprised that what comes back are things I could not help. I see a young man behind a dumpster, his body giving out next to a small metal file and a straw. The tell-tale green residue of fentanyl clinging on stronger than this boy’s body could. The tremor in my hands as I knew I could not get help fast enough. Nausea, knowing that Narcan and a phone could have maybe bought him some time. I stand, useless, worthless. Under the dirt on his skin and the now vacant eyes, it is impossible not to see the boy. To, instead, see him with a full face, young, maybe in the sun on a warm summer day. You wonder then if it would mean something else than a statistic, if he hadn’t died next to garbage. If it would all have been easier to swallow. I see his blank stare; in it, I still see the blame that finds a home within me. I remember the dark sky and the bridge. Mostly I remember a woman using a metal ladder to climb over the suicide barrier. My legs aren’t fast enough and my heavy bag weighs me down. Life goes on as she falls, the people in their cars blind to the person falling head first into the water. By the final effort she put into this, I know that this is where she wanted to die. I see her profile illuminated by the headlights of the passing cars. I don’t know what this means to her, I cannot help but assume that there was something about this place. Or maybe the problem was that there was no meaning to be found. She stays with me as if losing that memory could destroy her entire existence. I see help I have denied on days where living seemed like an abstract concept. I see the faces, the blood, and the pain. The memories have their hands around my throat, nails leaving trails on the skin. On nights like these, I accept them as something I more than deserve. I was a fool, such a fool, to have entertained the idea that I was better than the people leading their normal lives. The ones who could so easily pretend we did not exist. That being at the right place at the right time a handful of times made me any different.

Laura comes in and she always manages to understand. She never draws out words that I do not want to speak. I cannot look at her, vision hazy from moments long passed. She sheds her uniform, much like the actress that attempts to let go of the character in a warm shower. The discarded pieces of clothing fall, lifeless, on the wooden floor. Now all that remains is a soft tank top and pale pink panties and Laura. Stripped down and sincere, it is in those moments that she is most mine. She slips under the blanket, movement fluid and certain. A hand reaches out to me and tugs until my head is lying on her chest. My ear against the apex of her heart, the slow beat under the skin sweet and honest. She knows how in its simplicity, it helps me center myself again. She does not ask why she does not question. Perhaps, she does not need to. It’s never been something I wanted to give to someone else – the collection of moments in which no steady beat found my ear drum. A list of strangers, long gone and forgotten.

I know that it is not really silence I crave. Just peace, a moment of tranquility far from the streets I have abandoned but who cannot exchange the same curtsey. I feel it more than I know it as her voice cuts through the air and resonate from her chest into mine. Her voice is tainted with fatigue but does not lose its usual cheerful tone, “You’re my favorite, you know that right?”

I do not answer, letting heavy eyelids fall instead. Her heart empties and fills and the valves it contains sound strong enough to support both of us.

She hums as if my silence is nothing else but acceptance. “I’m pretty sure you just are.” Mircalla has now moved to cuddle against her side. She purrs as Laura’s other hand passes over the black fur. “I like when I’m not at work and I see you come in with your work clothes, smelling of dough and fire. I like that, no matter how you joke otherwise, you got a cellphone mostly so I don’t worry as much when you’re gone. I like that you always answer my calls, even if it is during my break at night and I just want to hear you. You always pick up, even if you are half asleep, even when you work early the next morning. And you never make me feel silly when I need to do it.”

Under the smell of antiseptic, she is still there. Despite having grown accustomed to it by now, it comes to me. It feels like she is standing in a field of lavender, with a freshly washed cotton shirt flowing with the vanilla tainted wind. She smells of things that were never mine to find comfort within, but she gives them regardless.

She speaks like she is reading facts out of a textbook. “I like how I never had to tell you that I was demisexual, you never assumed anything and always let me do things at my own pace. I like that you buy my favorite treats and sneak them in. Then you deny it with all your might and get offended when I thank you. You really don’t need to, but you always insist and I kind of love and hate that you spend more money on me and everyone else, then yourself. I like how you don’t even need to try to calm me down when I need to. How you just are and you being you is enough to do what I can’t do myself sometimes. I like how you never make me feel unimportant or less than. How our troubles can lie side by side and you never compare them.” Her laugh is small and soft, just like the kiss she presses to my head. “Even if you probably should sometimes. I like you in the early morning and in the middle of the night, and in all the hours in between. I like you, just so much, when you look at me and I just feel so beautiful, all the time, you know?”

I feel her fingers passing through my curls, carefully threading through. “I like how you and Danny get along so well, even when you both pretend not to. How with Danny and LaF and Perry and Mircalla it kind of feels like we’re a weird family of sorts. And we’re never alone. I like that –”

Sleep arrives, carried by the sound of her voice. _I love you_ goes unsaid but settles its warmth between us. Morning comes, with pancakes and a small kiss before I leave. The previous night disappears and neither of us mentions it.

 

* * *

 

_June 24_

 

Laura holds the container that protects the freshly baked cake as she looks at me, “Just knock on the door, Carm.”

My eyes dart between her and the door. It is white and clean, much like this suburban neighborhood. The grass is green and freshly cut and I can safely say I haven’t seen this much of it in years. You would think that after all of this, I wouldn’t fear meeting the man behind this door. But I am pretty certain that this is fear and my hands fidget within my pockets.

She just smiles at my discomfort before giving me a couple of quick kisses on the cheek. “You don’t have to be scared, it’s just my dad. If you don’t feel okay we’ll just leave after eating.”

“I am not scared.”

She nudges me with her foot, “Then knock on the door, doc. This is getting heavy.”

I rub my sweaty palms on my pants, “Look, it’s just – well the closest thing I have ever had to a father figure is Delmar.” My head tilts to the side, as I shrug, “And he is my boss and a black man with a family of his own. So all this father stuff is just not one of my –“

Her face softens, but no matter how hard I search, I cannot find pity. “I know, babe. Don’t worry, if you get too uncomfortable, I’ll just text Danny to call us with some imaginary emergency.”

I eventually do, and it is a tall man with graying hair that answers. Within a few seconds, I understand where she gets all that energy from.

He takes the container from her hands. My eyebrows raise, surprised by his thick French accent, “Cake? Where did you buy this one?”

She gives him a hug, “Dad! I made it myself –“

He gives her a teasing smile, “And your apartment didn’t burn down?”

She sighs but laughs at his corny joke regardless, “I’ve gotten pretty good – Carm, tell him –“

I keep glancing back at Laura, letting her guide me into how I should act. I clear my throat, making sure my voice seems steadier than I feel. “She is very good, sir. She has not started a fire since I met her.”

He balances the container with one arm before extending the other. His handshake is firm, his eyes so much like Laura’s that the fear instinctively lessens. “Call me Marcel. You must be Carmilla. I feel like I already love you, with all Laura has told me.”

My heart rate accelerates and I can feel the blood drain from my face as I turn to look at her. There are so many things I wish to contain within our small group. Her eyes are on me, concerned and kind. “Only good stuff, Carm. Like how you convinced Danny to let us get a cat.”

I slip my hands into my pockets, nodding, “Right well, I can be rather convincing, if it is needed.”

His laugh is loud and unrestrained, “Well you need to be with that one. As hard-headed as they come.”

Laura shows me around the house. I know it’s partly to make sure I’m okay while her father cooks in the kitchen. She stops suddenly in the middle of the hallway, whispering even though we are considerably far away from her father. “I didn’t tell him anything other than the little, everyday things, I swear Carm –“

I cross my arms over my chest, both defensive and thankful. “Why didn’t you?”

She huffs, a small frown forming on her face, “Obviously because it wasn’t for me to tell. Like, there’s nothing more to it than that and the fact that you’d –“

My hand finds the back of her neck, bringing her lips to mine in one smooth motion. Once in a while, it will hit me. The impact driving the air out of my lungs – that this is something I can do. That she isn’t just some summer dream I will wake up from. The kiss is cut short, fearing her father will catch us. It’s only once some distance has been put between us that I take in how vulnerable she looks. I do not understand why it makes me feel safe. But she leaves her hand on my shoulder and I just know that she does.

“Thank you.”

She scoffs, a small pout on her lips, “You’re welcome, drama queen.”

The house is cluttered with decorations, plants, and pictures of Laura. We eat outside, by the pool. It feels like a moment stolen from a book. The way Laura laughs with the sun on her hair. Her father’s bright polo and how his teasing is accompanied by soft pokes at her side. Ice cubes rattling against the glass as it is brought to lips. It combines and looks like how Laura feels. It is as her father laughs at one of my off-hand comments that I see it. I am back at Silas, on a small mat, looking at the ceiling. I can see the battered, rotten wood and the dreams of comfort and stability. Imagining safety, for myself and those who were left in the abandoned building.  But Laura fills up my glass with lemonade that seems almost too sweet and I am here. Standing with both feet, having reached the destination that was never promised. My hands tremble on my lap, my lip trapped between my teeth, a feeble attempt to contain this realization.

He brings a hand to cover his mouth as he chews, “So, now that we’re a little full, I think it’s time to ask the typical father questions. How long have you been together?”

Laura’s hand squeezes my leg supportively as I answer, “Four months now, I believe.”

She snorts, obviously annoyed by my short answer. “We’ve known each other for – what? Almost a year now? We actually dated for a few months before it all became very official.”

I look at her smugly, “Did we, now?”

She laughs, giving me a small push, “Yeah, nerd. What else would you call it?”

His father simply smiles, “Oh well, that’s good.” He crosses his arms over his chest, “You’re the first one she has brought home in a very long time. As far as I’m concerned, you must be a pretty special young lady.”

Laura groans, “Dad. Stop.”

There’s a slight flush on her cheeks as she avoids looking at me. My stomach flutters and the corners of my lip curl without my consent.

“She’s pretty special too.” She turns to me, smile digging dimples into her cheeks. “Not always in a good way, but I guess I do like that about her.” Her mouth falls open while her father catches my teasing tone and chuckles.

Once the meal done, they refuse my help to clean up. Soft music plays from an old record player. The conversations are light and easy. I go swimming for the first time since I was sixteen. Laura throws water at me and we pretend to be so much younger as the water moves around us. For a moment I even believe we are. I prove her wrong and silently thank Danny, as I manage to hold her up on my shoulders. Her skin is warm and tanned and she looks just so healthy. The evening finishes late, after a warm cup of coffee. We make plans to do this again. Laura looks at me with an expression I do not understand and holds my hand while driving and doesn’t let go.

 

* * *

 

July 19

 

The place has died down. Only a few people trickle in and I take this moment to lean against the counter, bringing a cold bottle of water to my lips. We still have a couple of hours before the other rush. In the meantime, it’s just Will, Vordenberg and I. I have tried to avoid conversation with Vordenburg ever since my orientation in my first week. He is, simply put, a very eccentric man, in a not so enjoyable way. But he knows his way around the kitchen, considering how long he has worked for this place. As he has repeated many times, he worked for Delmar’s father, the late Rico himself. Will, on the other hand, seems okay by my standards. Perhaps he is a little snarky and self-centered, but typical for a boy his age. 

Mattie comes into the kitchen with an annoyed expression on her face, “Karnstein, apparently some client wants to give you shit for something.”

“What?”

She puts a hand on her hip, “I’m just passing along the message, sweetheart. I wouldn’t keep her waiting if I were you.”

Will crosses his arms over his apron and smirks, “Good luck.”

I tug my hair net and apron off, throwing the plastic gloves into the garbage. Usually, we take turns dealing with problematic clients. I am not so lucky this time, it seems. As I walk out of the kitchen, I comb through my memories of recent events trying to find the possible offense.

It’s impossible not to smile at her, at her bright and ridiculous dress. It seems, regardless of my current outfit, stained with fifty different foods, the feeling is mutual for Laura.

“Carm!”

I take her in, her work bag and the uniform peeking out of it and the small lunch box in her arms. “So, you’re the angry client ready to fight me over pizza.”

She brings a loose strand of hair behind her ear, “Well, you know me.” She sends a nervous glance at Mattie. Obviously, I, with my history, do not scare or intimidate her in any way. But Mattie, on the other hand, does considerably, no matter how hard she tries to hide it. And the girl does not miss a thing, as she leans with her elbows on the counter. She has a smug look on her face as she looks at the smaller girl. All of this, because of one phone call on a day I did not have my cellphone. Mattie gives her a graceful and teasing wave and Laura huffs in response. She hands me the lunch box, “I brought you lunch. I know you didn’t have time to make one this morning and it’s,” Pink finds its way to her cheeks, “partly my fault, so –“

“Laura –“

She turns around looking at the empty place, “I didn’t know if you had your lunch break already, but I thought you hadn’t because you always text me. So I thought maybe you hadn’t eaten yet and I could just drop this off before going to work –“

It is a small tug on her wrist that brings her back to me and cuts her rant. “Thank you for the lunch. I can take my break now. Come eat with me.” I turn to Mattie, “Tell the two fools in the kitchen that I’ll be back in fifteen.”

“Have fun _eating_ _,_ love birds.”

Laura glares at her as she follows me into the break room. I barely have time to close the door before she presses me against it. Her lips are on mine and a hazy static fills my brain. Bodies close and I can feel her every breath. It takes a few seconds before I feel my lips responding but she doesn’t seem to have that problem. She doesn’t waste a second as her hands slip under my shirt, palms against my stomach.

Her lips leave a trail of kisses from my jaw bone to my neck, “Thanks for lunch.”

The warm breath against my skin makes goosebumps rise in response. Blunt nails scrape softly the skin it finds. “No problem.” Her voice is low and I feel the hum in her chest as the words fall out. I let my hands slowly move up her dress, finding firm hips.

Our lips come together one last time before being replaced by a small sigh. “I can’t wait to finish my shift tonight. It’s been too long since I’ve had a day off and I miss you.”

I chuckle, “Needy. I’m always there, Laura.”

She shakes her head, “Seeing each other pass midnight and early in the morning doesn’t count.” She takes a quick look at her watch, “Gosh. I took my bike, I already need to go if I want to make it on time.”

My thumb brushes over her cheekbone, “Better get going then, nurse Hollis.”

With another kiss and a small wave goodbye, I am now alone in the break room. My sandwich is clumsily cut into a heart. My chest feels heavy and full, but it feels far from uncomfortable. I have a hard time biting into it. I manage to convince myself to eat it, after a few pictures are saved into my phone.

 

* * *

 

After a quick shower, I throw on a light t-shirt and tie my (Laura’s) favorite plaid shirt around my waist. I grab my skateboard, giving a quick explanation to Danny who is sitting on the couch. My foot beats down on the pavement as I make my way to the hospital that contains one of the people I trust the most. The sky is dark, only a small handful of stars shining through. I try to find the ones hidden under the light pollution as I sit on the bike rack next to Laura’s ride. Time moves slowly until nurses start trickling out of the entrance.

“Hey, stranger.”

She still has her scrubs on, and I know it mostly means that her shift has been long and she cannot wait to get back home. I take a look at the time on my cellphone, face shifting into the casual expression I can muster, “Five months.”

A small laugh, she takes a few steps towards me. She catches her lower lip between her teeth, “Yeah. I think.”

I wipe my hands on my pants before standing up, “Another one?”

Her sigh is exaggerated and doesn’t fit with the wide smile she gives me, “I guess we could.”

Once she has the proper protective equipment, she gets on her bike. Her laugh echoes in the streets as I hold on to the bike seat, letting her carry us. We give up half way, my old skate not handling the rough streets. I hold on to her waist as she gives me a lift back home. With the wind flowing through my hair and her rib cage expanding above my hands, I wonder how it is possible for the human brain to create so much love for someone else. I go over the neurochemistry; dopamine, adrenaline, serotonin, oxytocin, and vasopressin. For once, it doesn’t seem to explain anything at all. I carry her bike into the apartment, the kiss and the smile she gives me seems to make more sense than biochemistry.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suprise! I am not dead! I bet that was quite the shock - please take a few moments to breathe. So here is this small chapter, in its somewhat unusual format, that helped me get out of this real intense writers/life block. I hope it was up To Expectations. I am, slowly but surely preparing for the end, and the final *****drama******, I thought a little fluff would be a good way to start. I hope that all 4 of you still reading this are happy and good and enjoying this summer hell heat


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